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MAINE IN VERSE AND STORY 



MAINE 

In Verse and Story 
GEORGE A. CLEVELAND 




BOSTON: RICHARD G. BADGER 

TORONTO: THE COPP CLARK CO., LIMITED 



Copyright, 1915, by Richard O. Badger 



All Rights Reserved 



^<5 






Thb Gorhau Prbsb, Boston, U. 8. JL 



PR I2I9I5 

3>CI.A397514 



1 ' 



To 

The State of Maine 

This book is affectionately 

Dedicated 



CONTENTS 

Page 

Maine 9 

The Reformation of Stephen Gilkins 19 

When the Red Specked Trout Are Running 

up Stream 36 

The Coming of the Stage 38 

An Idyl of the Hay Field 41 

The Bronzen Clock 43 

The Spring Time Welcome of the Wood. . . 44 

The Harnsom Punkin Blow 45 

The King of the Allagash 46 

Katahdin 62 

Congarnebeake 64 

The Autumn Leaves 65 

The Penobscot 66 

The Loved Pine Cone 68 

Fishin' Through the Ice 69 

The Wakening of the Wild 71 

Uncle Si's Retaliation 72 

The River's Life 74 

June 76 

The Frost King's Reign 77 

<( The Situation's Worse" 78 

The Breath of Death 80 

On Old Sunkhazt 115 

When the Birds are on the Wing 117 

Hiram's Return 119 

And the Sea Shall Give Up its Dead 121 

September 122 

The Bangor Fair 124 

The Larchmont 126 

Our Volunteers 128 

Lincoln 129 



CONTENTS 

Page 

The Remick Case 133 

To "Jock" Darling 150 

The Cast of the Mottled Fly 152 

Nightfall on the Lake 153 

Nearer My God to Thee 154 

A Maine Forest Drama 155 

The Wind and the Waters Obey My Will. . 157 

Dan de Lion 158 

Columbia's Lament 159 

The "Hurry Up" Nag 161 

Uncle Jed 163 

The Symphony o' Spring 173 

The Levelling Plane of the Grave 174 

When the Speckled Trout Are Biting 175 

The Bloom of Our Own Apple Tree 181 

The Triumph of Hiram Perkins 182 

The Full Summer Time 199 

The Soothsay of the Wild 200 

He that Hath Eyes, Let Him See 201 

The Paradox of Life 202 

The Patrons of Husbandry 203 

The Brotherhood of Man 204 

October 205 

The Aviation of Cupid 206 

November 257 

Piscalosis 259 

The Scythesman 260 

OF NatuS y ll Even Up 261 

The Skeptic 262 

Castles in the Air 263 

Jones' Big Pork 264 

Buster in Maine 269 

Hands Across the Wall 274 

Thou Shalt Not Kill 275 



MAINE IN VERSE AND STORY 



Maine in Verse and Story 



MAINE 

Supreme, Majestic Charm land, of New Eng- 
land's north, 

In bounteous weight on thee, was Nature's hand 
set forth, 

A' Master blending of the charms of Sea and 
Land, 

Where subjects bare their heads, to bow, and un- 
derstand, 

And which shall thy great crowning glory be? 

That which liveth of the land or dwelleth by the 
sea. 

Dwelling by the Sea 

Thy Sea girt glories in fantastic scroll are spread, 
From Kittery Point, to Fundy's gate, and Quoddy 

Head, 
A mighty carve and scuplt of Time's eternal tides, 
A sovereign sublimity of Sea charm here abides. 

It freights the surf that laves the sweeping sands, 
Of York, of Wells, and famed Old Orchard's 

strands, 
Who roams these midways, fraught of Ocean's 

sooth, 
Reads of its grains, God's vast, infinite truth. 

The mystic spell of Casco's year of Isles, 
Comes of the Spirits of its legend wiles, 



io Maine in Verse and Story 



That hover yet, o'er rites of bygone days, 

When they as mortals roamed these Island ways. 

A charm be-spells the lengthened Cape and Neck, 

That weaves the mysteried delta of the Kenne- 
bec, 

The linger of a vanished race, a long stilled 
tongue, 

The lilt of Tribal incantations sung. 

The Sculptor's hand grew bolder as it chiseled on, 
And of the higher vestments sought to don, 
Penobscot's Bay, cuts deeper of the shore, 
A favored vantage hold of Indian lore, 
Here, are hewn the lime rock canon deeps, 
The ocean trails beneath the bouldered steeps, 
Megunticook, and Beatty herald o'er the sheen, 
Of sunrise to Islesboro and Castine, 
The Bay is broad and through its channels charge, 
The snow white steamer and the dark hulled 

barge, 
And where the waters wake abaft their parting 

hulls, 
Swift follow o'er the foam, the screaming gulls. 

Far out, where blue of Sea, is lost in blue of sky, 
Seal Rock, Matinicus, and fair Monhcgan lie, 
Fox, Deer, and Swans, these white home dotted 

Isles, 
Are sentineled by kelp strewn cragged piles, 
The resting place of squaw, brant and teal, 
The ahlng hold, and diving place of seal. 



Maine in Verse and Story 1 1 



The mists arise and veil the sea at dawn, 
Then lifts the sun, and bids the curtains drawn, 
And, There, revealed, down in the shimmering 

glow, 
The verdant sea bound land of Isle Au Haut. 

Mount Desert, Ah, 'tis here the Lyric's pen must 

fail, 
No mind can phrase, can pierce the mystic veil, 
Of all thy haunts of sea and shore, that spell, 

inthrall, 
Lifts here, the towering climax of it all, 
Here, Neptune holds his Court, his Citadel of 

state, 
And Nymphs and Sirens on the God await, 
These ocean peaks, they are the temple domes, 
Where sea Gods, meet the land Gods Elves and 

Gnomes, 
The phantom folk, that spell these haunts of land 

and sea, 
Compare, and conjure here anew their witchery. 

The mighty cleft of rock, and string of bar and 

shale, 
They are but pipe and reed of mammoth scale, 
Shaped by time drove tides, and centuried beat of 

waves— 
The hammer strokes of Neptune's building 

slaves — 
To massive organs, which with choirs of land and 

Main, 
Rend td the Gods, a grand symphonious strain. 



1 2 Maine in Verse and Story 

The Porcupines, they are the anchored Island 
fleet, 

That constant guard the Capitol retreat, 

While, porpoise, seal and dolphin are the scout- 
ing spies, 

That range the seas above, below, with search- 
ing eyes. 

That breath of fir, that blends with duke and 

sedge, 
From tide bared periwinkled lift of ledge, 
Is rare sweet incense, wafting to the council 

halls- 
And blest the mortal on whose sense it falls— 
'Tis borne on film of mists that landward blow, 
Cooled and savored of the Artcic flow, 
A nectar, brewed, and fit for bowl of God or 

King, 
And pilgrims linger, to partake, and sing. 

And so we might dream on of this enchanted 

place, 
And other lay of witchcraft to the Fairies trace, 
But, mortal hath not mind to voice, acclaim, extol, 
That mighty omnipresence that pervades it all. 

The osprey, winging eastward still, above the 

shore, 
Sees bolder yet the heads and bays that mark the 

score, 
Sees Englishman's, Machias, Narraguagus lie,- ^ 
His beat of wing is quickened, louder shrills his 

cry. 



Maine in Verse and Story 13 



At last, where Fundy posts her sentry, Grand 

Manan, 
He finds the castled end of Maine's broad ocean 

span, 
But not done yet are all her mystic sea girt ways, 
To northward sweep and scroll Lubec, and Quod- 

dy Bays, 
Where cliffs are painted high, of giant tides of 

cool, 
Where pollock leap, the silver herring flash and 

school, 
Where paddled craft of Quoddy Chiefs once rode 

the roll, 
Who knew no stake marked border lines, and paid 

no toll. 
And there, the osprey wingeth yet to meet new 

joy, 
And greet the wild fresh river waters of St. 

Croix, 

That liveth of the land 

In lavish magnitude her landscape charms are 
found, 

From 'Hampshire to the circled Province bound, 

What e'er of Nature be the ardent subject's 
choice, 

Of that in measure full his heart may here re- 
joice, 

Here, a thousand green and granite shouldered 
crests, 

A thousand hallowed glades and sacred rests, 



14 Maine in Verse and Story 



A thousand forest span on slope and plain, 
A thousand forge of lake and river chain, 
A thousand shouting brooks and laughing rills, 
A thousand gorge cleft pools and chiming spills, 
A thousand hoof marked silent jungle trails, 
A thousand cedar tented barren swales, 

Who knows of these, he hath not sought in vain, 
Of Thee, and thy blest hold, Oh gloried Maine, 

A thousand voices call from forest gates, 
A thousand joys for him, therein awaits, 
A thousand swells of breast, and fill of lung, 
A thousand thanks on high to lisp from tongue, 
A thousand chords to swell the carol's strain, 
That rends, eternal, here to thee, oh gloried 
Maine. 

A fountain flows to Lyric's pen, or scribes, 
The angler finds the chiefs of salmo's tribes, 
The huntsman on the hoof beat trail and trace, 
Finds monarchs of the glens to lead his chase, 
The shriner hath his cup of joy o'er flown, 
And blest is he to whom these cloists are known, 
Who knows the woodland song, its arts and speech, 
Hath knowledge that no lettered Sage can teach, 

Here, Nature holds her Court and bids thern 

Come, 
And none will to her call be deaf or dumb, 
The color of her standard is the gloried green, 
And everywhere her loyal hosts are seen, 



Maine in Verse and Story 1 5 



In plume of fern, in drape of shrub and trees, 
From pines on high waved ever to the breeze, 
Her altars stand in every grandeured mont, 
Her baptistries in every lake's pure font, 
Who takes of spring, wild fruits of bush or vine, 
So takes communion as of bread and wine, 

What wond'rous stories can thy Shire named 

rivers tell, 
Whose fountains in the hidden wildernesses dwell, 
Whose pine fringed tributaries in each valley 

flow, 
From out the deepest haunts and all their secrets 

know. 

The alien Saco comes from 'Hampshire's snowy 
peaks, 

Presumpscot of Sebago, and the Songo speaks, 

The Androscoggin's mighty circled drain flows 
out, 

Umbagog, Rangeleys, Parmacheenee's realms of 
trout. 

The Kennebec, its rushing gorge bound floods be- 
gin, 

Where Mooshhead's sluice ways spill, or bar the 
waters in. 

Penobscot, Oh Penobscot, what can thy waters 
tell? 

Of forest, lake and stream, of mountain gorge 
and dell, 

In that great splendored Shire, thy legioned feed- 
ers kiss, 



1 6 Maine in Verse and Story 



Where richest bounties fell, in charmed Pisca- 
taquis, 
Where, stands Katahdin, with its' arms eternal 

spread, 
In lay of benediction on the faithful's head, 
There, reigns Mooshead, the Queen of all thy 

water ways, 
Where domes of Kineo, of Squaw and Spencers 

gaze, 
There, surf of Churchill, Chamberlain, Chesun- 

cook lash, 
There, lies 'Congo-moc, 'Bamticook and Alla- 

gash, 
There, gleams Sebec, Seboois, Schoodic, Caribou, 
There, sparkles Nahmakanta, Pamadumcook, 

Umbazoo,' 
Bright scintillating gems, seen from Katahdin's 

crest, 
Of pearl and silver, linked and hung on Nature's 

breast. 

There, roams the lordly moose, the giant forest 

King, 
While choristers of Abol, and Ripogenus sing, 
There, stately deer drink of the inlets crystal cool, 
The beaver swims, the otter has his sliding pool, 
There, moonlight mirrors bruin's face and drip- 
ping jaws, 
Or prowling lynx, who dips within, his stealthy 
paws. 

Aroostook, of the gardened Shire whose name it 
bears, 



Maine in Verse and Story 17 



And with St. John, and Allagash its glory shares, 
Their tributaries legion in the timbered span, 
In jungle deeps but seldom seen or trod of man, 
A wildered vastness wherein might an Empire 

dwell, 
A virgin mold yet to unfold, of yet to tell. 
The Union takes the exiled angler in his dreams, 
To rocks of Hancock, and the trout enchanted 

streams, 
Where hills seem grander, and the lakes of deep- 
er blue, 
And haunts seem dearer to the hearts that love 

them true, 
The 'Guagus, Mopang, Grand Lake's tumbling 

steep, 
Of Washington's wild marvels tell, where salmon 
leap. 

And, so we might sing on, Thy charms eternal 

ring, 
But time shall not endure, Oh Maine, of all to 

sing, 
But what is told of one, is told of all the rest, 
Though true, each subject has the haunt he loves 

the best, 
Some favored water, or some hallowed cloist of 

pine, 
He calls his own, there comes the most, and sets 

his shrine. 

But, where thy subjects wander, distant lands 
away, 



1 8 Maine in Verse and Story 



In loyalty their hearts will beat, their memories 

stray, 
To thy enchanted wilds, of shore and forest plain, 
And ever yearn, 'til they return, oh gloried 

Maine. 



Maine in Verse and Story 19 



THE REFORMATION OF STEPHEN 
GILKINS 

A STRANGE contrast indeed was that 
between the homestead of Stephen 
Gilkins, and those of his neighbors, in 
the pretty little farming community in 
Eastern Maine. While their places showed at 
every hand evidence of enterprise, thrift and pros- 
perity, Stephen's presented a sad picture that was 
quite the reverse. His numerous buildings were 
sagged and dilapidated, and utterly devoid of any 
last trace of paint. 

His house was the saddest, blinds were either oft 
or hanging by one hinge. Clapboards and shingles 
were missing in many places. Windows were 
minus many panes of glass, in lieu of which were 
stuffed old hats, and wads of discarded clothing. 
On his barn the doors were propped up with scant- 
lings, and the boards were off on the sides. Some 
of the outbuildings had tumbled down altogether. 
About the yards and here and there in odd places, 
were the rusted and decaying wrecks of once val- 
uable farm machinery, vehicles and tools. Around 
the fields fences and stone walls were flat, and 
their lines marked by rank shrubs and golden rod. 



20 Maine in Verse and Story 

In the fields themselves certain saplings had be- 
come seeded in, and the mowing had "run out." 
Only a small patch of land near the house showed 
any sign of recent attempt at cultivation. A lanky 
cow, a runty hog and a few mongrel hens wander- 
ing aimlessly about, was the sum total of his re- 
maining live stock. A few years before when 
Stephen's father was at the helm, this was one 
of the show places of the town, in its appearance 
and equipment. It lay in the same fertile belt 
with the neighbors. The same rains came, fell 
and watered it, the same sun warmed it, and in- 
fused into its soil its plant life giving electricity. 
Stephen himself was as able bodied, and as well 
skilled in farming as any of his fellows, had been 
considered a model young farmer. Liquor or 
tobacco he knew not the taste of. He was of 
home tastes, steady and simple in his ways. He 
had got a good common school education, had 
been an easy scholar. But beyond going a few 
times to the county fair, one trip to the county 
seat as witness in a trial, was the extent of his 
travel. But he had always been a great lover of 
hunting and fishing. In his father's time he had 
been kept within bounds, only going on these ex- 
cursions on rainy or holidays. But, after his fath- 
er's death, and he had become his own master, 



Maine in Verse and Story 21 

he went more and more, until he lapsed into an 
abandonment of everything else, and spent his 
whole time on the streams and on the ridges in 
the gratification of his love for these sports, and 
no one seemed to be able to reason him out of it. 

He had married an honest, hard working girl 
whose own home had been broken early in her 
childhood, she had since gained a livelihood 
among the good people of the community, some 
of the time at Stephen's home. 

She had married him a few months before the 
death of his mother who died shortly after his 
father. She believed she was gaining a good 
home, and she loved Stephen with a true wife's 
devotion. He neglected her and their two chil- 
dren in his hunting and fishing mania, but she 
made no complaint, put no blame on him. He 
was always kind enough to them in manner. She 
worked like a slave trying to keep the farm and 
body and soul together, and the neighbors helped 
her. She always believed, and firmly asserted that 
Stephen would see the error of his ways and come 
around all right. Stephen's case was a source of 
much real sorrow and regret among the neigh- 
bors, for they liked him and his wife. Besides, 
his place in its ramshackle condition was a sad 
blot on the fair face of the town. Stephen's three 



22 Maine in Verse and Story 

nearest neighbors were Bert and Charlie Hilton, 
brothers, and Harry Moulton, three young farm- 
ers of his own age, each married and settled on 
farms no better than his, but unlike him they 
worked and kept theirs up. These young men kept 
well read on the doings of the world; had seen a 
bit of it. They were prominent in the town af- 
fairs, active in social functions, and quite pro- 
ficient in amateur theatricals, and various enter- 
tainments. Stephen on the other hand not having 
read or travelled much, his knowledge of the ways 
of the world was quite limited. 

They had been boys with Stephen. They were 
much distressed at his destructive course, and they 
had tried hard to turn him from it, to no pur- 
pose. 

Stephen's favorite fishing stream lay over in a 
pretty forest valley some three miles from his 
home. He reached it by an old u Tote" road that 
wound through the forest. About a mile in the 
road passed through a deep glen in the hills. It 
was narrow with high black cliffs on either side. 
It was densely wooded with cedar trees, except a 
small clearing where stood an old "hovel" — a 
rough log camp used for stabling horses during 
former lumber operations. The glen was a dark 
lonesome place, the hovel long deserted was dark, 



Maine in Verse and Story 23 

dank and musty within, as a tomb. 

Stephen feared neither man nor beast in the 
open, but he had a hearty dislike for deserted 
buildings wherever they might be. He had a spe- 
cial dislike for this place, and never lingered there. 
He would have gone a mile around it if he could 
have done so and reach his stream. One cloudy 
morning in early May, Stephen was wending his 
way through the glen, stepping sprightly, his creel 
suspended from his shoulders, and jauntily swing- 
ing his rod in his hand. Home, wife, children, 
all forgotten in the fresh riot of green in the 
spring woods. The frogs were peeping, par- 
tridges drumming, busy birds flitting here and 
there nest building, and filling the woods with 
song, all of which sounded sweet to his ears, and 
he could almost then feel the thrill of the rod 
when the plump speckled beauties would be tug- 
ging at his line. 

He was about to step out into the clear space 
of the hovel, when he was startled by a rustle in 
the cedars and he was terrified to see two enor- 
mous black bears standing upright, and walking 
on their hind legs, appear, one on each side of 
him. They hemmed him in completely before he 
could move a step. He was terribly frightened, 
and too weak to even cry out when each of the 



24 Maine in Verse and Story 

great beasts laid a paw on his shoulders. 

He believed his last moment had come, and 
that he was soon to be torn to pieces by the huge 
animals. He was utterly helpless, completely in 
their power, he had no weapon but a jackknife, 
broken bladed at that. But what was his greater 
terror and astonishment when he saw that they 
were walking him along between them toward 
the hovel. Quaking and stumbling they marched 
him straight up to the hovel door, pushed it 
open, and roughly hustled him into the dark inte- 
rior. A few feet further he felt himself thrust 
in a seat in some kind of a pen like enclosure. He 
sat there paralyzed with fear, peering about him 
in the gloom, gradually he began to see, and a 
strange and fearful sight met his gaze. The 
place resembled a court room, in the Judge's seat 
at the rear sat a monstrous black bear, before him 
where the clerk should be, sat a huge lynx. Ste- 
phen himself was in a prisoner's box, and on each 
side of him stood one of the bears that had 
brought him in. Looking over a low barrier of 
small cedar trees he saw the massive head of a 
moose staring at him with fierce black eyes, be- 
side the moose he saw glowering at him the heads 
of deer, bob cats, foxes, raccoons, hedgehogs and 
other smaller inhabitants of the forest, a whole 



Maine in Verse and Story 



jury of them, all staring at him with glaring, ac- 
cusing eyes, and all silent as the tomb, not a sound 
had come from one of them. It was a terrible 
sight. What did it all mean? When and where 
had these animals become endowed with such 
power? It was awful. Then he was tenfold more 
frightened than ever, when a great bellowing gruff 
voice rang out in the hollow cavernous interior. 

"Officer, whom have you here?" 

"Stephen Gilkins, your Honor," growled the 
answer. 

"What is the charge against him?" roared the 
Judge. 

"Slaughter and persecution of the peaceful in- 
habitants of the woods and the waters," was the 
answer. 

"Ugh, grave charges those. Who is there here 
to testify as to the truth of them?" 

One of the bears stepped out on the floor. 

"Your Honor," he began, "I can testify that he 
caught my own father in a terrible trap, with 
long steel teeth that pierced clear through his leg. 
His sufferings and those of my mother who tried 
to help him, were awful. He dragged the trap 
which was fastened to a small log, all night, until 
this man came and shot him in the morning. Be- 
sides this, I know that he is in the woods all of 



26 Maine in Verse and Story 

the time, killing, killing, always killing, either an- 
imals, birds or fishes. He — 

Here a wild commotion broke out among the 
animals assembled. The moose thrashed his great 
horns, and snorted fiercely. The deer stamped 
their feet, and blew out the peculiar sharp whistles 
of their kind. The bob cats snarled savagely, and 
all of the animals voiced their indignation in their 
own way, and shifted about uneasily in their places. 
Stephen scared to a jelly, gasped and quaked in 
his pen. The Judge was staring at him, stern 
and grave, the lynx was driving his pen rapidly 
over sheets of birch bark paper. Every one of the 
bears' terrible words of accusation had pounded 
like a sledge hammer in Stephen's ears, and it was 
the truth. But, what could it mean? How could 
all this be possible. It was a dream, a terrible 
nightmare, it must be. But, no, there sat the 
Judge, there was all of the rest of them. It was 
true enough, it was awful. 

"Order," roared the Judge. "Go on with the 
testimony," he continued, when order had been 
restored. 

"Your Honor," resumed the bear. "This man 
is in the woods when he ought to be at work on 
his farm. His farm has run out. It is in a dis- 
graceful condition. His buildings and all of his 



Maine in Verse and Story 27 

machinery and tools are ruined. His wife and 
children are destitute, actualy in need of food and 
clothing, and the neighbors are caring for them/ 
or they would have starved— 

"But is he sick? Is he unable to work?" broke 
in the Judge. 

"No, your Honor, he is not sick. He is as 
able to work as any man in his town, but all he 
does is to fish, and hunt and— 

"Enough," roared the Judge. "Is there any 
others who can testify?" 

"Your Honor," thundered the moose, "He has 
killed several of my kind, and wounded many 
more. In the fall of the year he hunts all the 
time; he follows our trails for days at — 

"That '11 do," said the Judge. "Deer, what 
do you say?" 

"I say the same your Honor, it is true, all true; 
he has killed dozens of us; our lives are in terror 
because of him and his terrible gun; those of us 
that he does not kill he wounds, and they die a 
lingering death of agony" — 

Here another wild demonstration broke out. 
Stephen thought they would break their bounds 
and rend him limb from limb. The Judge roared 
and the other bears clamored loudly for order. 
It was several minutes before it was restored. 



Maine in Verse and Story 



Quaking, shaking, gasping he sat there in the 
fearful ordeal, trying to wonder how it would 
ever end. 

"Lynx," continued the Judge, "What have you 
to say?" 

"Your Honor," he replied, "These charges are 
all true; the half is not told; but none of us have 
ever feared him. He knows better than to inter- 
fere with us. We would comb his hair and dust 
his clothes in a style he would not relish. He has 
often set traps for us, but, pooh, we know better 
than to get into them, but I see him every day in 
the woods killing either fish or something else. 
He- 

"That is enough," hammered the Court. "This 
is monstrous, infamous, unbelievable. Why wasn't 
I advised of this before? Now, is there anyone 
here to say anything in behalf of this man? Some- 
one who can say anything good of him, among all 
these citizens of the woods?" 

All was silent as the catacombs. Not one voice 
responded to this call. 

It was an awful situation, a scathing denuncia- 
tion. Poor Stephen cringing in his pen could hear 
his heart pounding like a mallet against his ribs. 

"Stephen Gilkins," resumed the Court, in a 
solemn voice, "Stand up." 



Maine in Verse and Story 29 

In vain Stephen tried to gather the use of his 
brain, nerve and muscle to obey this command, 
but it was not in his power. Then the two bears' 
stepped up and raised him, holding him to his 
feet. 

"Stephen Gilkins, these are grave charges, 
shameful charges, what have you to say to them ? 
Are they true or are they false?" 

Stephen sagged, reeled and swayed between his 
supporters, but for them he would have fallen in a 
pulp to the ground. He sputtered, gasped and 
desperately strove to force his voice to utter the 
plea his mind had framed. At last he found voice 
to wail out in agonized tones. 

"O-oh, Mr. Bear — Oh Mr. Judge, your Hon- 
or — I don't know — I — O-o-oh. Yes. Yes. I have 
gone hunting and fishing. I have killed moose 
and deer — but I didn't know, ev — 

"No," thundered the Judge, "You didn't know 
I suppose that we animals, the birds and the fishes 
have feelings; can suffer pain and torment; that 
we love our wives and our children — Yes, bet- 
ter than you seem to love yours, for we protect 
and take care of ours, we don't leave it for our 
neighbors to do, as these reputable witnesses have 
testified here that you do— 

"But, I am not the only one," broke in Ste- 



30 Maine in Verse and Story 

phen. "Other men go hun— 

"Yes, that is true, they do, but do they spend 
their whole time at it? as you do. Do they let 
their homes go to ruin? Do they let their wives 
and children depend on other people for a liv- 
ing ?— 

"O-o-oh, No," wailed Stephen, "They don't, 
and if you'll only let me go this time, I'll prom- 
ise— 

"Well, what will you promise?" Why should 
we let you go? now that we have got you, and 
have been given this power. Why shouldn't we 
do as you do by us, kill and eat you? those of us 
that like and eat flesh." 

There was a tremendous outbreak at this. 
Snorting, fierce grows, screeches and horrible ca- 
terwauling, and thunders of "Order," rang through 
the gloomy court room. 

It was a terrible moment, to the prisoner, 
whimpering and grovelling under the thunder of 
these terrible accusations and arraignments, but, 
fearful as it was, he thought he saw a possible 
ray of hope in the Judge's question. That this 
great savage beast might perhaps be more merci- 
ful to him than he had been to his kind. The two 
bears at his side had released their hold for a 
moment, as in his earnest plea he had partially 



Maine in Verse and Story 3 1 

regained his strength. Now he fell to his knees, 
purposely, and poured forth his repentant agony, 
full acknowledgment and realization of his guilt 
and wrong doing, supplication for forgiveness and 
a chance to show that he would do better. 

For an age it seemed to him, there was silence 
in the dungeon, a silence that seemed to penetrate 
to the bone. Then the great bruin Judge rose to 
his feet. 

"Well, Stephen Gilkins," he began, "I am going 
to try you, I am going to take you at your word 
and this time let you go, but, first I have some 
questions to ask, some advice to give. Do you 
promise this Court that you will at once go to 
work on your farm, plant your crops, rebuild 
your fences and your buildings, gather up and burn 
the ruins of your farm machinery and wagons 
and carriages, and try to get new ones, feed and 
clothe your wife and children, and keep at it until 
your farm, your buildings and your family look as 
well as anyone's in the place ?" 

"Yes, Yes," yelled Stephen, "O-o-h, I'll— 

"Do you promise never to go into the woods 
again, fishing, hunting or for anything, except to 
cut wood, or logs, or something connected with 
your work and duties?" 

"Yes, Yes, O-h-oh yes, I promise everything." 



32 Maine in Verse and Story 

"Do you promise never to reveal to any living 
being, your arrest by us, or your trial in this 
court?" 

"Yes, Yes." 

"Very well," decided the Judge, "We will see. 
But look you here, remember, if you break one 
word of these promises we will know it. Every 
bird in the air, every animal in the woods will be 
watching you, and will report to me the first un- 
faithfulness. Now, I am going to send you home. 
Go, now, and get to work, at once. Probably the 
neighbors when they see you do it will turn 
to and help you, as they have been doing in your 
idleness. Officers, clear the way, and permit the 
prisoner to retire." 

Pandemonium itself now broke loose. The an- 
imals seemed greatly dissatisfied with the Judge's 
leniency, and all of them but the two bears were 
voicing their displeasure at the tops of their lungs, 
and were striving to pounce down upon him. But 
the powerful bears held them back. 

Stephen tried to stagger to his feet. He par- 
tially succeeded, and tottering and half crawling 
he stumbled toward the open door. How he got 
outside he never knew, but at last he found him- 
self in the sweet open air, found himself intact in 
limb and body. He was at first too weak and 



Maine in Verse and Story 33 

still too frightened— for fear that it yet might not 
be true, to move fast. 

He did not stop to look for his rod or creel. 
Oh, how sweet the air and his freedom began to 
seem, it gave him strength, confidence. He began 
to go faster until he broke into a loping run, and 
then he never stopped until he had cleared the 
woods and was well in his own fields. 

The moment he was well out of hearing a most 
remarkable change took place in the hovel, the 
mouldy old rafters rang with shouts of wildest 
laughter, as the Hilton boys and Harry Moulton 
got out of their sweltering bear skins to cool off, 
and give vent to their pent up feelings. How 
they had ever held in,— so ridiculous had it been, 
they did not know. But their little entertainment 
of ventriloquism, accompanied by the taxidermy 
exhibit had been a howling success so far. 

The townspeople were very much surprised at 
the miraculous sudden change that took place in 
Stephen Gilkins. That is, all but his own wife. 
But she, just like a woman took it as a matter of 
course, saying that she always knew that Stephen 
would come out all right, sooner or later. 

He began to plow and plant, clean up and re- 
pair, night and day he toiled like a beaver, faith- 
fully keeping his trust to the bears, who now all 



34 Maine in Verse and Story 

unconsciously to him, rendered him every assist- 
ance possible, it was astonishing how they did help 
him. Their means of his reformation might have 
been drastic, and brutally severe. But, they were 
amply justifying the end, working beyond their 
strongest hopes. 

It was wonderful how soon Stephen's home- 
stead began to assume its old time splendid ap- 
pearance; how soon it compared favorably with 
the others, how happy and triumphant his wife 
looked. 

There were other citizens of the region who 
must have marvelled more at Stephen's change; 
these were the real ones in the woods that were 
the innocent cause, and who got all the credit 
from Stephen. But how they ever became pos- 
sessed of such power he never knew. It was as 
strange and mysterious, as far beyond him, as are 
many things that happen daily, probably just as 
simple of solution, to some of the supposedly 
wisest Savants in the land. 

The deer grew plenty in the woods, and the 
trout multiplied and waxed fat in the streams, but 
Stephen troubled them not. 

It was hard, perhaps harsh to deprive him of 
these pleasures. But if he could not enjoy them 
in reason, without loss to himself, and suffering 



Maine in Verse and Story 35 

to others, was it not best ? 

Perhaps some day the bears will convey to him 
the message, that if he can again go fishing, and 
perhaps even hunting, in proper moderation he 
may do so, and he will not be by them molested. 
But, if this comes to pass, it is extremely doubt- 
ful if he will avail of the privilege. 



36 Maine in Verse and Story 



WHEN THE RED SPECKED TROUT ARE 
RUNNING UP STREAM 

In the sweet May sir, 

The bees are humming, 
On the old log bare, 

The patridge drumming, 
Oh bright days rare 

That we longed for coming, 
When the red specked trout 

Are running up stream. 

In the poplar trees 

The hedgehog climbing, 
There's a gentle breeze 

In the new leaves rhyming, 
To the silvery keys 

Of the cascade's chiming, 
When the red specked trout 

Are running up stream. 

O'er moss banks cool 

The arbutus creeping, 
On the fern fringed pool 

The frogs are peeping, 
As in bright hued school 

The swift rips leaping, 
The red specked trout 

Are running up stream. 

Through the winding trail 
Are the echoes ringing, 
From the wooded vale 



Maine in Verse and Story 37 



Where the birds are singing, 
In the branches frail 

With the squirrels springing, 
When the red specked trout 

Are running up stream. 

Oh, the halcyon days 

Of the angler's dreaming, 
When in smiles of praise 

All Nature's beaming, 
And he threads the ways 

Of his fondest dreaming, 
When the red specked trout 

Are running up stream 



38 Maine in Verse and Story 



THE COMING OF THE STAGE 

How clearly we remember the old village days 
The plain honest folks and the simple quiet ways. 
Before progression's iron hand had dared the 

mighty scheme 
Of placing curb and rein upon lightning and 

steam. 
When the highway was the railroad and the 

stages were the trains 
The horses were the engines and the throttle was 

the reins 
And the greatest weekly feature alike to youth 

and Sage 
Was gathering at the tavern at the coming of the 

stage. 

Lumbering and jouncing with a multi squeaks 

and groans 
It lumbered down the valley over "Thank you 

Marms" and stones, 
The whiff letrees a jangling, and the clank of trace 

and chain. 
The bronzen visaged driver deftly plying whip 

and rein 
Above the steaming back of each begrimed and 

straining steed, 
Thus to cut a dashing figure and arrive with 

greatest speed, 
With that big old clumsy callaboose, the wonder 

of the age 



Maine in Verse and Story 39 



When we gathered at the tavern at the coming 
of the stage. 

With a grand and lofty flourishing he swung the 
leaping four 

Around a sweeping circle up before the tavern 
door, 

Then bent and drew the mail sack from under- 
neath the seat 

And cast it down in triumph at the village "Trad- 
er's" feet, 

The smiling tavern keeper standing by with ready 
hand 

To greet the wonderous travellers arrived from 
distant land, 

The motley crowd a gaping, and the barking of 
old "Maj." 

When we gathered at the tavern at the coming of 
the stage. 

First the village "Big man" He'd "Just been in 
to town", 

And his haughty buxom daughter in a "Stunning" 
hat and gown, 

A sprightly looking drummer with a most amaz- 
ing grip 

And a lone sailor laddie on a furlough from his 
ship, 

Then a "Fellar buyin' cattle" who had many times 
been there, 

Last a solemn visaged stranger with a mystify- 
ing air, 



40 Maine in Verse and Story 



All went in before the register to sign upon its 

page 
When we gathered at the tavern at the coming of 

the stage. 

Since then we may have traversed many places 

far away 
Walked the streets of greatest cities in the busy 

whirl and sway 
We have stood within the terminals of the endless 

lines of steel 
Seen the thundering arrivals of the palaces 

awheel, 
But all these modern marvels have not seemed to 

us as great 
As that witnessed in the village of the dear old 

native state, 
Away back in the living of our childhood's happy 

age 
When we gathered at the tavern at the coming 

of the stage. 



Maine in Verse and Story 41 



AN IDYL OF THE HAY FIELD 

I walked by the rolling meadow 

When the scent of new mown hay, 
Came fraught with recollections 

Of a bygone happy day, 
And while I sat reflecting 

Where the pine spread o'er the stream, 
The spell that fell upon me 

Lulled me slyly into dream. 

I saw a dear old homesetad 

On an old New England hill, 
I saw the trout brook winding 

In the valley, and the mill, 
I saw the hardwood ridges 

Where the squirrels used to throng, 
And the merry hosts of bird folk 

Filled the sacred shades with song. 

I saw a kind old father 

With the home love in his eye, 
Where the dewy meadows bending 

When the June days meet July, 
With a step then firm and steady 

And an arm full strong and lithe, 
Lead the sturdy line of mowers 

At the swinging of the scythe. 

Ah, But best, a blessed Mother, 
With the Angel in her face, 



42 Maine in Verse and Story 



As she brought the welcome "baiting" 
As the "tumbles" grew apace, 

To swell the yawning hayrack 
Drawn by oxen staid and kind, 

As Father "pitched" The laddie "trod" 
And Mother "raked behind". 

But, those sweet days have vanished, 

Now dwell only in our dreams, 
And I thank the breath of clover 

And the purling of the streams, 
That can lure me into visions 

Where I live those hours again, 
Though the waking brings a longing 

Where the heart must echo pain. 



Maine in Verse and Story 43 



THE BRONZEN CLOCK 

It crouches on the mantel there 

A gnarled old bronzen clock, 
With visage grim it seems to stare, 

With gloating accents mock, 
A lean black finger points the nicks 

It tallies 'round the ring, 
And in my ear the subtle ticks 

In taunting measures sing. 

"I Tick it, Tick it, Tick it, Tick, 

Scoring night and day, 
I Tick it, Tick it, Tick it, Tick, 

Your measured time away. 

At midnight hour, At dawning's break 

The sordid tyrant elf, 
No moments miss am I awake 

To mock me from the shelf, 
A single beat it seems to hold 

As precious as an hour, 
As in each greedy note I'm told 

I'm helpless in its power. 

"I Tick it, Tick it, Tick it, Tick, 

Ceaseless night and day, 
I Tick it, Tick it, Tick it, Tick, 

Your numbered hours away. 



44 Maine in Verse and Story 



THE SPRING TIME WELCOME OF THE 
WOOD 

IVe trailed again the sacred hills 

That winter in my dreams, 
IVe heard the greeting of the rills, 

The welcome of the streams, 
And other friends of field and wood 

Familiar hail have sung, 
To one who long has understood 

Each woodland sigh and tongue. 

Where rose a wall of budding hedge 

A sparrow swelled his throat, 
Aslant a fir trunk on the ledge 

A squirrel barked his note, 
Where sun ray warmed the sloping glade 

And pierced the piney bower, 
There peeped from 'neath the mossy shade 

The sweet arbutus flower. 

Each lichened rock and landscape turn 

A fresh new joy instilled, 
Each leafing shrub and plume of fern 

Its own warm welcome thrilled, 
To Nature's Sons these spells are good 

And fruitful to the soul, 
The springtime welcome of the wood, 

The faithful shriner's goal. 



Maine in Verse and Story 45 



THE HARNSOM PUNKIN BLOW 

Them rhymin' cracks hav' had their whacks 

At nigh 'bout all the posies, 
The vi'lets blue, the daisies too 

The lilies an' the roses, 
I'm free to j'in' they're mighty fine 

But, Why, I'd like to know, 
Ha'n't some slick sharp tuned up his harp 

To the harnsom punkin blow ? 

It's true to tell, 't'a'n't got much smell 

Nor a hifalutin name, 
But, you'll jus' see a bumblebee 

Inside it jus' the same, 
An' mark my words, them kind o' birds— 

Tho' p'raps it may seem funny — 
Don't poke their nose inside o' blows 

That a'n't as sweet as honey. 

Now, I've no trick o' rhymin slick 

Or paintin' things up rosy, 
But, jus' the same I lay some claim 

To know a harnsom posy, 
An' 'mongst the corn at 'arly morn, 

You'll hav' some ways to go 
To beat by far the flamin' star 

Of the harnsom punkin' blow. 



4-6 Maine in Verse and Story 



THE KING OF THE ALLAGASH 



o 



N the central panel of a great railroad 
office in a large city, is the massive 
head and antlers of a moose. On a 
silver plate beneath it are these words : 



THE KING OF THE ALLAGASH. 

JUDSON BlLLHORN. 

Standing beneath it recently, and gazing soberly 
up at the great head was a bronzen faced veteran 
whose adult fifty years of life had been spent in 
the great wilderness from whence this magnifi- 
cent trophy had come. As the guide stood there 
spellbound before it, the fierce black eyes seemed 
to become imbued with the old time war fire of 
life, and to look down on him challenging, com- 
manding, "You, you know the truth, and must 
vindicate me." 

Only the old guide and Judson knew the se- 
cret of the old King's fall. Jim Capino had all 
these years religiously kept his faith. But, Jud- 
son Billhorn was dead now, and he was no longer 
bound. And so, standing there, hat off, before 
the grand old forest Chieftain, he answered, 
"Yes, and I will tell the story." 



Maine in Verse and Story 47 

One of the most famous sporting camps of the 
Maine wilderness was the Allagash Camps on 
Long Lake. Go look on the map of Maine, and 
where the rivers look like a wild riot of scratches, 
and the lakes like spatters of ink on a Post Office 
blotter, and you will see where one scratch widens 
out like a heavy black scrawl, this is Long lake, 
running into this is another winding scratch which 
is the Chemquassabamticook stream. It was on 
the lake, near the mouth of this stream that the 
camps were beautifully situated. 

For many years this place was the Mecca of 
many wealthy sportsmen from the larger cities, 
here they found the most for their money, and in 
gratification of their search for royal sport, the 
best that the great wilderness afforded. But, for 
a number of years there had been an unusual at- 
traction there, a thrilling source of rivalry. It 
was the one great aim, and chief ambition of those 
who went there, to bring down, and bear out the 
head of the "King of the Allagash." A giant 
bull moose, who had for several years dominated 
that region in a reign of triumph and terror. Noth- 
ing like him has ever been known in the woods. 
Over a wide section of this region this mammoth 
black ranger had established his standard and do- 
main, and he had defended it against all comers, 



48 Maine in Verse and Story 

on two legs or four. So despotic and fearful had 
been his prowess, and so far its fame spread, 
that the great city dailies devoted scare heads 
and many columns on their first pages to thrilling 
tales of wild encounter with this terrible stag, 
rivalling the most vivid adventures of the Indian 
jungle, and the most intensely exciting stories told 
around the camp fires at night were those of meet- 
ings with him and consequent fortunate escape 
with life and limb. There are bleached bones 
now lying in the forest, and many a scar and crip- 
pled limb on living beings that are stern memen- 
toes of his terrible charge. 

Description of him reads like fable, but of a 
truth he stood fully ten feet high from the tips 
of his antlers to the ground, his weight was esti- 
mated at fifteen hundred to eighteen hundred 
pounds. His antlers, their blades as broad as 
coal shovels, had a spread of seventy inches, and 
this with his massive elevated bulk of forebody, 
the monstrous head with its ungainly bulk of nose 
and deep thick bell, his great black fire flashing 
eyes with the fierce crescent of white at their sides, 
made him an appalling spectacle to contemplate 
at close range, and he was a huge living seething 
engine of venom and destruction stalking the 
ridge and barren unstayed. The moment he 



Maine in Verse and Story 49 

sensed the presence of whatever invader, just that 
moment he became the hunter, and he ceased not 
until he had driven the hated foe from his do- 
main. He seemed utterly impervious to rifle fire, 
putting to rout whole parties of hunters organ- 
ized against him, coming out unscathed from fu- 
silades of lead and steel, while the hunters were 
lucky to escape with life in their bodies. This it 
was that had won for him his title, "The King of 
the Allagash," Thus he had come to be regard- 
ed in a sense of pride as the unconquered cham- 
pion of the region, who had met and bested all 
comers. He had brought great fame and pres- 
tige to the region. His head was regarded as the 
most gloried trophy on the North American Con- 
tinent. Something highly sensational was looked 
for in its fall, and the lucky captor would be 
crowned in a blaze of glory. 

Among those who went down to the Allagash 
Camps every year was Judson Bilhorn, the son of 
a great railroad magnate. Judson was one of 
those disappointment exceptions that often occur 
in the sons of exceptionally forcive and successful 
fathers. He was bright enough, and educated to 
the limit, but had displayed none of the traits that 
so characterized his father, and had made him 
almost a world power of himself. Judson could 



50 Maine in Verse and Story 

not see the necessity of holding his nose to the 
grindstone of business strife, when his father had 
more money than a hundred such families could 
reasonably spend. He was of simple quiet taste, 
an "Odd stick." He preferred his own society 
and his own ideas of life, and so long as he was 
of exemplary habits, broke no conventionalities 
and harmed no one, his father let him pursue his 
own bent, being as that bent was a harmless one. 
Fishing was his chief delight, he loved the woods 
and Nature, and seemed contented to dwell there. 
His position at the camps was a queer one, in the 
main he rather held aloof from the rest. Jim 
Capino, one of the best guides — whom he re- 
tained for his special use, was really his only close 
confidant and companion, and much of the time he 
took short journeys into the woods without him. 
Judson prided himself on his ability to sing bass, 
and certain it was that he could utter gutteral 
notes of astonishing profundity, these when in har- 
monious unison with other strains might not be so 
bad, but, rendered solo, extempore, as was his 
persistent habit, it was quite a different matter, 
and it subjected him to much banter and made him 
the joke and butt of the camps, all of which he 
took in the best of good nature. 

He always took with him into the woods the 



Maine in Verse and Story 5 1 

best of hunting outfits, but he seldom used them, but 
he supplied the camp tables with fine trout and 
salmon. It was claimed that he would not know 
a moose from a hedgehog in the woods, and that 
as a marksman, he could not have hit a flock of 
barn doors, with a shot gun, at eight rods. He 
always brought out his full allowance of game, 
but, Jim Capino could have told better where 
it came from. It was asserted that his principal 
object in going down into the woods was to hear 
himself sing bass. He didn't do much of it around 
the camps for obvious reasons, but away by him- 
self on the surface of some placid stream, or lake, 
he could yodel out the deep notes for hours with- 
out fear of jibe and missile, as there would be no 
auditors but the bears and bob cats, who didn't 
mind, at that time of the year, when their pow- 
ers of mobility were in the best working order. 

It was one mild October night that Billhorn 
awoke about midnight. The full hunters' moon 
was flooding the camp interior with light. He 
could not get to sleep again. Something— possibly 
some note in the snores of the sleepers created 
within him a strong desire to sing. 

He knew better than to attempt such a thing 
around there at that hour, so he arose and dressed 
and stole out of the camp. He embarked with 



5 2 Maine in Verse and Story 

his rifle in a canoe and paddled softly along the 
shore and turned up the winding course of the 
'Bamticook, lulled by the soft effulgence of the 
moonlight, and the charm and enchantment of the 
forest night drill, he passed some two miles or 
more in silence. At last he came to a spot that 
particularly impressed him, and he grounded the 
bow of his canoe on the shore and rested drink- 
ing in the wonderful scene. On one side the heav- 
ily wooded ridge sloped down to within a few rods 
of the stream, a short space of rush and swale 
intervening. On the other hand a bog barren ex- 
tended back an eighth of a mile to a dense cedar 
forest. Near the river bank on the barren side a 
huge lone boulder— stranded there in the dim 
past— loomed up like the grey bulk of some mighty 
prehistoric elephant. Close beside it grew a stout 
scrub cedar. Far up and down the stream the 
sharply defined outlines of the ridge peaks, sil- 
houetted against the mellow sky, and' down there 
in that enchanted sylvan amphitheatre, all was 
peaceful and still. 

Billhorn's craft rested in the drying reeds near 
the boulder. A moment after the first spell began 
to die away, he began to roll out on the night air, 
a dolorous solo, strong, deep and melifluous. 

Back from the sleepy hills it beat in the echoes, 



Maine in Verse and Story 53 

a weird dismal cadence, but sweet and captivat- 
ing to the ears of its author. In blissful ecstacy 
he continued to warble and listen, drinking in' 
whole soulfouls of the rich basso symphony. When, 
suddenly from somewhere in the far distance up 
the ridge, a response came floating down that Bill- 
horn knew at once never originated in his vocal 
organs. It was a hoarse gruff boom, the nearest 
thing he could liken it to, was the soul lost wail 
of the whistling buoy, in a fog off Grand Manan. 
He did not know what it was, and it was certain he 
did not want to. It did not defer him from singing, 
but the response began to grow louder, nearer, 
fiercer, defiant and competitive, and added to the 
deep jerky "Ugh, Ugh— Ugh," he began to dis- 
tinguish also the thud of heavy footfalls, and a 
great thrashing of boughs. Intently erect, and 
quite uncertain of purpose he sat waiting now, 
peering up into the black maze of the ridge side 
from whence the mysterious sounds came, his rifle 
firmly grasped in his hand. He was thankful that 
the river intervened between him and whatever 
it was that had opened a rivalry to his melody. 
Just inside the fringe of the forest the thing 
halted, "Whoooof !" A mighty blast like a steam 
exhaust blew out, then, silence. Billhorn's heart 
was jumping around inside of him like a rat in a 



54 Maine in Verse and Story 

coal sifter. He glanced quickly about him. There 
was the open path of the stream, up or down, but 
that did not appeal to him. His glance rested the 
strongest on the boulder and the friendly cedar, 
the best resort that seemed to present itself. It 
was clearly up to him to make the next move, 
and he made it, but just what prompted him to do 
what he did, thoroughly frightened as he was, 
would be hard to explain, but he began to do the 
very thing that had brought the predicament upon 
him. Sing, starting on upper Do in the bass cleft, 
and then, Si, La, Sol, Fa and so on down, down — 
Crack! Crash, and out through the bristling 
hedge of dry kyle the shore wash of many fresh- 
ets, came a giant towering black form with a head 
and antlers like a hay rack. With thunderous 
strides it plowed through the rustling dead flag 
and swale. Straight to the river bank it came, 
and halted not fifty feet distant. There it stood, 
the fierce eyes flashing fire, and great clouds of 
white vapor blowing from its nostrils. 

Billhorn crouching in his canoe stared at it in 
terror. Contemptuously the bull looked across at 
him. What was that diminutive thing over there 
in the water? What was it doing there? Where 
was the rival bull, the worthy foe he hoped and 
expected to meet? Billhorn knew well enough 



Maine in Verse and Story $$ 

now what it was, and who it was. Then came 
before him in a flash the banter and derision he 
had suffered all these years, from the fellows rn 
the camp. He realized that he then was sitting, 
rifle in hand, within a dead sure shot of the most 
coveted trophy in the Maine woods. Here was 
his Heaven sent opportunity to turn the tables, to 
humiliate them to the dust, to salve the gall of 
years, in one pull of the trigger. A ripping deto- 
nation rang out. Like a volley of infantry the 
echoes fusiladed back, as hill spoke to hill in the 
clarified night air. There was a choking fume of 
powder in the midst that hung over the river, and 
through it Billhorn saw still standing there, the 
huge bulk of the bull. But only for a moment, 
for with a mighty roar he lunged over the bank 
into the river straight for the canoe, the water 
flying in spray before him as from the prow of a 
steamboat. 

Billhorn flung his rifle to the winds, and rolled 
out of the canoe, struggling to his feet he dashed 
for the scrub cedar beside the boulder, scrambling 
to its topmost limbs he reached a cleft of the rock 
and drew himself up just as the bush was swept 
from beneath him like a reed by the great antler 
blades of the infuriated beast. But there on the 
apex of that grand old relic of the glacial period 



56 Maine in Verse and Story 

he was safe, as much so as if he had been in a 
baloon. 

In a cyclone of rage the baffled animal circled 
the rock. He roared, snorted and pawed by 
spells, ripping up the moss and soft muck in cart- 
loads, demoniac fury bristled from every hair of 
his body. Now, and again he towered up on his 
hind legs like a pile driver, and struck at the rock 
with his ponderous fore hoofs, uncomfortably 
near, and sending blasts of hot vapor into the 
face of the cringing form of Billhorn, clinging 
there like a treed cat on the crest of the boulder. 

The great bull's continued failure to reach his 
foe increased his rage, for hours he roared and 
battled around and against the rock, seeming 
never to tire of it. The first grey streaks of dawn 
began to show in the east, the air was now crisp 
and chill, and a white frost blanketed the surface 
of the barren, but Billhorn was warm enough, his 
blood was racing through his free veins. He had 
passed a never to be forgotten night. He wel- 
comed the coming dawn, believing that at day- 
light the King would retire, and he knew that his 
guide would start in search and relief would come 
that way. Suddenly he saw the great bull pause 
in his rampage and stand rigid, erect, staring to- 
ward the cedar forest, "OOONH, Ooonh," a new 



Maine in Verse and Story 5 7 

slogan came beating out, in hoarse jerky grunts, 
showing that the utterer was running as he voiced 
his challenge and was hurrying toward the seat 
of the disturbance. Billhorn's bull roared back 
his answer, fierce and defiant. He started a few 
rods in the direction of the new foe, then he 
halted and looked back at the rock seeming to 
debate with himself which of the two he should 
give his attention to, and he decided to defend his 
position at the rock, roaring out his defi to come 
on. He stood now at his grandest height, his mag- 
nificent antlers thrown back, his huge bulk of nose 
curling and wrinkling, his heavy brush of mane, 
erect and ruffled forward, his deep bell swaying 
even with his mighty chest, the "King of the Alla- 
gash." 

The war notes from the cedars grew louder, 
fiercer, nearer, then, out on the white barran in a 
striking contrast dashed another giant black stag, 
a new "Richmond" in the field. He was heading 
straight for the rock. So rapidly did he come 
that Billhorn's bull had only time to square him- 
self for the attack, and here was a foe worthy of 
the old King's blade. He was fully as heavy, but 
lacked the King's mighty spread of horn. His 
was closer to the "spike horn" class, but very 
stout and thick in the main, and dangerously sharp 



5 8 Maine in Verse and Story 

and lance like. The crash was like a head on 
collision of locomotives as horn met horn. So 
powerful was the rush that Billhorn's bull was 
bowled completely off his feet, his assailant som- 
ersaulting squarely over him. Both ungainly 
beasts lumbered to their feet and drove straight 
at each other, and then a terrific struggle fol- 
lowed, a battle such as no man has ever wit- 
nessed before. The hills thundered at each other 
with their mighty bellowing, the clashing of their 
antler blades rang out like an ancient army of bat- 
tling with lance and armor. The bog shook and 
trembled under their pounding hoofs. So excit- 
ing was it that Billhorn forgot all fear of his sit- 
uation, would not have changed it for a fortune. 
He stood up on the rock, taking side with the 
"King" and yelled "Bravos" at him like a Roman, 
to spur him on. As they rushed, rammed and 
gored, their eyes became reddened, and huge flecks 
of crimson froth flew from their mouths and nos- 
trils. So far the contest had been equal, neither 
had gained an advantage. But, see, was the new 
comer the better general and strategist? Or was 
it chance? For gradually he had worked around 
until he had the advantage of the great solid rock 
behind him, and then, he could have stood off a 
freight train. Slowly, now, he recovered his wind, 



Maine in Verse and Story 59 

while his opponent weakened. Then, he seemed 
to gather all his mighty bone and muscle in one 
terrible Herculean effort. One dynamic rush, and 
shade of Titan, the King held him. But, see, 
God of battles, see, the spike horn was now ac- 
tually driving bog and all back in his tremendous 
charge. It was a terrible handicap, a fatal one. 
He drove the King back on his haunches, then 
over on his side, then drove into him again and 
again, unmercifully, roweling and goring him re- 
peatedly, brutally, until from very lack of breath 
he was forced to momentarily back away. 

Up from the steaming red slough, Billhorn's 
bull staggered to his feet. A fearful spectacle, 
emboweled, and great red clutches of flesh and 
shreds of hide hanging from his sides. But, not 
an instant did he waver. With his dark life blood 
pouring from his riddled sides he drove straight 
back at his foe. The rest is short, as the dying 
stag came on blindly, half sidewise, he stumbled 
and fell squarely onto the lowered antlers of his 
conqueror, who for a moment struggled in vain to 
extricate his horns. Then came the spectacular 
finish, a fitting wind up of a battle worthy of the 
Spartan war Gods, or the most exacting Roman 
arena. Up, up, the victor slowly began to raise 
the enormous bulk of the fallen Chieftain. Then, 



60 Maine in Verse and Story 

with one mighty upward heave he hurled it square- 
ly over his back against the rock, and it fell at its 
base, a quivering, mangled mass of flesh and 
bone. The victor waited for a moment. Then, 
seeming to utterly disdain the man on the rock, 
he turned and strode back to the cedar forest from 
whence he had come, the new King of the Alla- 
gash. 

Billhorn slipped down from his prison, hat off 
he stood sorrowfully gazing at the dead champion, 
deep emotions stirring within him, fortunately the 
splendid head was but little injured, this he served 
with a heavy bladed knife he always carried, and 
later in the day he came back with his guide and 
the great body was reverently buried with the 
convenient clods of muck. And there his bones 
rest today. In the heart of his own great native 
Wilderness. In the realm he so valiently de- 
fended. 

Marked by a monument, grander, more historic 
and enduring than any other shaft that rears to- 
day by the grave of any warrior. 

Now, therefore, know ye all, who knew the 
great forest Chieftain in the full fire of his life 
and reign, that this is how he fell, not by the puny 
hands, or machinations of simple man, but by a 
battle royal waged in defense of his crown, and 



Maine in Verse and Story 6 1 

with a foe every inch full worthy of his rank and 
his blade. Ye that have lamented and mourned 
at his supposed inglorious end, take solace. 

It is always the fortune of war that one side 
must fall, of Champions, that they must some 
time meet defeat. Luck, Chance, Prowess, or a 
combination of the whole, call it what you will, 
went against him in the splendid fight, and he 
fell. 

Billhorn's appearance at the camp landing at 
sunrise that morning with the great head of the 
King of the Allagash mounted as a figurehead on 
the bow of his canoe, was a sensation that will 
long live in the history of the Maine wilderness, 
particularly was it so to the Allagash camps. 
Keen disappointment, humiliation and great chag- 
rin rankled deep, and hurt, while Billhorn's tri- 
umph and silent enjoyment was supreme. If he 
told them no truths, he also told them no lies. 
His faithful guide was the only one who knew the 
truth. While duty bound him he kept his faith. 
But now, he has told the truth. 



62 Maine in Verse and Story 



*KATAHDIN 

When Nature, great Creator 

Had freed her mighty brain, 
Of its marvellous conception 

The wondrous state of Maine, 
Her face illumed with pleasure 

As she saw it was the best, 
Of all her gloried handiwork, 

It far excelled the rest. 

And so, she raised a monument 

Within that favored land, 
A grand and lasting altar 

That eternally should stand, 
Where those to render homage 

To the Great Creator's art, 
Might find a shrine at which to bow 

The nearest to her heart. 

And thus in stately grandeur there 

Lifts old Katahdin now, 
With the touch and kiss of Heaven 

Ever resting on its brow, 
And from a thousand hill tops 

To the north, south, east and west, 
The eye of man may view today 

Its snowy mantled crest. 

Old Father time, who levels all 
Long left it in despair, 



♦Maine's great mountain, 



Maine in Verse and Story 63 



The lightning's stroke, the tempest blast 
Have met their master there, t 

A thousand years ago it stood 
A thousand from today, 

'Twill stand and bid the elements 
To pause before its sway. 

The sun's first ray at dawning 

Its latest beam at night, 
Must shed on that eternal dome 

Its world sustaining light, 
When tempests rage, its sky born peak 

O'er tops the highest cloud 
Commands its light when all below 

Is darkened in the shroud. 

What grander shaft could she have reared? 

To consecrate the ground 
The greatest land of pleasure 

That ever man has found, 
Where boundless forest, lake and stream 

To every zenith spread, 
And every glade is furrowed 

With the antlered monarch's tread. 



64 Maine in Verse and Story 



*CONGARNEBEAKE 

Reflecting deep the wooded steep, 

Bald mountain's grizzled dome 

Whose breath of balsam tones the tempered air, 

Where herons wade the inlet glade 

And wild duck love to roam, 

The winding rifts of water sheltered there. 

Where pastures wide and forest side 

Slope down in richest green, 

To craggy points where snowy birches sway, 

Their nodding smiles to piney isles 

Adrift upon the sheen, 

Where rests the light canoe at heat of day. 

When dawning breaks the angler wakes, 

At bugle call of loon, 

Then favored deeps his jaunty vessel plies, 

While ripples turn and part astern, 

Where glints the whirling spoon, 

And speckled trout and silver salmon rise. 

Oh happy soul whose craft can roll 

On such a fairy sea, 

'Mid dreamy isles in mountain shadowed bays, 

Where Nature's art from every heart, 

Makes pain and worry flee 

A Haven blest in golden summer days. 

♦The Indian name for Phillips lake, Hancock county, 
Maine. 



Maine in Verse and Story 65 



THE AUTUMN LEAVES 

Oh the autumn splendored leaves, 
Crazy quilt that Nature weaves, 
Every little gust that's blowing, 
Sets the tinted hosts a going, 
Squall of painted giant snow, 
O'er the open fields they're straying 
'Round the hedges they are playing 
In a wild prismatic glow. 
Golden yellow, soft and mellow, 
Ruby, scarlet, pink and brown, 
The leaves are falling, falling down. 

Oh the riot of the leaves, 

How they rustle o'er the eaves, 

On the window panes they patter, 

On the walks they roll and scatter, 

Into every nook they flee, 

Madly whirling, gaily prancing, 

The merry spangled horde is dancing, 

Like a rainbow on a spree, 

Golden yellow, soft and mellow, 

Bronze and silver, cream and brown, 

The leaves are falling, falling down, 



66 Maine in Verse and Story 



THE PENOBSCOT 

Far up in Maine's great pleasure land, 
Where grand Katahdin's sentries stand, 
A thousand vales lie mid the hills, 
Where springs to life the feeding rills 
That in the realm of rest and dreams 
Found thy great flood Oh Prince of streams. 

There pure and undefiled by men, 

They flow and dash through gorge and glen 

And o'er their foaming rips and steeps 

The speckled trout and salmon leaps 

And oft within the forest glade 

Reflects some noble antler blade. 

Then from the hills through drive and sluice 
Thy waters bear the pine and spruce, 
Then turns the wheel within the mill 
That shapes them into sheath and sill, 
Then start abroad on every tide 
Deep laden ships the ocean wide. 

Again, when winter's spell is strewn 
In crystal cubes thy waves are hewn, 
And thus thy soothing power betimes 
Is born afar to southern climes 
To lave some fevered throat or brain, 
With thy cool charm of distant Maine. 



Maine in Verse and Story 67 



So, in the busy world of strife 
Thy torrent fills a wond'rous life, 
Unceasing, flowing, day by day 
A power no human hand can stay. 
Thy mighty flood rolls full and free 
Forever onward to the sea. 



68 Maine in Verse and Story 



THE LOVED PINE CONE 

How touching is the power 

Of a homeland emblem flower. 

Or a charm that decks the branches of its chosen 

forest tree, 
There's a charm that hangs before me, 
With its happy memories o'er me, 
It is rough, and sear and homely, but is very dear 

to me. 

It is fragrant of the mountains, 

The jungle hidden fountains, 

In the olden trails and places, on forest side and 

plain, 
Where the sunlit lakes are sheening, 
Where my heart is ever leaning, 
To the streams forever calling, in the intervales of 

Maine. 

It is constant, and as lasting, 

As the green the pines are casting, 

On the old home hills eternal, and in winter days, 

alone, 
Is there wonder then we love it, 
That we hold none else above it, 
Where it hangs above the mantel there, the loved 

pine cone. 



Maine in Verse and Story 69 



FISHIN' THROUGH THE ICE 

When the days are hangin' dully, 

Locked, the woodland an' the heath, 
When the trout brook in the gully 

Slumbers, fretful, underneath, 
When we're weary of the wishin' 

Comes a rift, that's mighty nice, 
To take a spell an' go a fishin', 

Go a fishin', through the ice. 

Glory, in the chisel's chinkle, 

As it bites, an' sinks an' sings, 
Music, in the tuneful tinkle 

As the flyin' crystal rings, 
Joy, as comes the water gushin' 

When we're bailin' out the chips, 
Ardor, 'round the holes a rushin' 

Baitin' up, an' settin' "tips." 

Hi, there goes a flag a swayin', 

Quick, we hustle, loud we shout, 
Careful, now, the line we're playin', 

Snub, an' here he splashes out, 
Shade of Isaac, what a whopper, 

"Five, at least, he'll tip the scales, 
No, well don't you bet a copper, 

My ol' guesser never fails." 

Oh, the day's too short o' lastin', 
In the welcome vent an' spell, 



70 Maine in Verse and Story 



From the longin' an' the fastin\ 
An' the narrow ways to dwell, 

When the snow is deep an' swishin' 
Binds the country in its vise, 

Ain't it fine to go a fishin'? 
Go a fishin', through the ice. 



Maine in Verse and Story 7 1 



THE WAKENING OF THE WILD 

When comes the day the song bird stays, 

And the bee wings far afield, 
To seek the sweet of the bloom he meets, 

And the clover's honeyed yield. 

When the trees unfold, and the boughs will hold 
Their joys of the bloom and leaves, 

And the flag and reed across the mead, 
Lift up in bladed sheaves. 

When the star flower bright, comes forth to light 

The haunts beneath the pine, 
And the trillium blows by the path that knows 

The trailed arbutus vine. 

When by the brooks, in the mossy nooks, 
Where the freshet filtered through, 

In its modest grace, the violet's face 
Looks up in chastened blue. 

When the green shoots curl, and ferns unfurl 

To the dewy tuft and plume, 
Where the gullys shout of a dashing rout 

That runs in the bouldered flume. 

Oh, a gladness dawns, when nature yawns, 
And she wakes her wildered eyes, 

To shed her smile, that so beguiles 
The gladdened earth and skies. 



72 Maine in Verse and Story 



UNCLE SI'S RETALIATION 

Say, when I see them pictur' papers 

What them smarty Allicks say, 
About the gormin' dress, an' capers 

Of the "Reuben" an' the "Jay." 
It jest does rile me into wishin' 

I'd the knack to pictur' plain 
Some o' your city chaps a fishin' 

Down to my place here in Maine. 

Now you can s'arch these tater diggins 

From Quoddy head to Caribou, 
An' if you can match their ways an' riggin's 

Then I'll tell you what to do, 
Jes rig me up in poke an' blinders 

Let down the bars and kick me pas' 
x^n' I'll turn out on my hands and hinders 

Along o' my ol' mare to grass. 

Fust, they'd bob tail'd coats o' yaller leather 

An' the gormedest lookin' two peaked caps, 
On their tops they tied together 

In skewgee kit-a-cornered flaps, 
But, say, their breeches, Holy Moses, 

Them's what made the chickens sneeze, 
For they was hitched to women's hoses 

About an inch below their knees. 

Then their fishpoles, limpsy j'inted jimcracks 
Gewgawed up with shiny rings, 



Maine in Verse and Story 73 



Lines wound up on whirlin' click clacks 
Feathered hooks on fiddle strings, 

Then they'd stuff to drive the skeeters 
I wonder was they sceered of ants? 

An' then they walked in kind o' teeters 

As tho' they feared they'd split them pants. 

An' that's the way they'd go a struttin' 

Harnessed up in all that click, 
Down the "tote road" through the "cuttin" 

There's the best holes in the crick, 
An' back at night they'd come complainin' 

How 't was this an' that that flunked, 
But, Say, 't was mighty poor explainin' 

How they'd got most measly skunked. 

Wal, the night before their goin' 

I cut a decent alder pole, 
Jus' slipped out to my fust mowin' 

An' took the nearest fishin' hole, 
Used just angleworms an' 'hoppers 

On a common hook an' line 
An ketched a string o' speckled whoppers 

That made them Dum fool critters whine. 

Now I s'pose they're home a lyin' 

About the heaps o' trout they hooked, 
An' all us country folks a guyin' 

How we talk, an' act and looked, 
But, Say, you writin' chaps so witty 

I've got jus' this much to say, 
You ain't got to leave your city 

To find the* foolest kind o' jay. 



74 Maine in Verse and Story 



THE RIVER'S LIFE 

At dawn, afar on a pine clad hill, 

There springs to life, a tiny rill, 

In sheltered clefts it safely creeps, 

Or in some rocky cradle sleeps, 

While Mother earth sweet nurture brews, 

To give it strength, in springs and dews, 

So pure, and sweet, its many charms, 

Like a new born babe in its Mother's arms. 

In the morning hours, a dashing brook, 
Speeds gaily on through bend and nook, 
Mid mossy banks, mid fern and flower, 
In shady dell, 'neath leafy bower, 
Now dashing down some dizzy steep, 
Then, o'er some boulder make a leap, 
And laugh and sing in silvery spray, 
For all the world, a lad at play. 

At Mid-day flows a sturdy stream, 
The brooklet's play now seems a dream, 
It now improves each shining hour 
To turn the mighty wheels of power, 
In every science, trade and art, 
It takes a most important part, 
To trace the wond'rous scrolls of time, 
As manhood, in its richest prime. 

At dusk, a river, grand and wide, 
Where ships of state and commerce ride, 



Maine in Verse and Story 75 



A noble flood with course well run, 
A great life work now faithful done, 
And now for the surging tides behind, 
It leaves the way and seeks to find, 
Rest, in the great eternal sea, 
As old age, meets Eternity. 



7 6 Maine in Verse and Story 



JUNE 

A golden ray at dawn of day, 

The dewy jewels glisten, 
The robin throats his morning notes, 

The world awakes to listen, 
When sun rides high the mellowed sky 

It draws a welcome shower, 
And leaf and spear are leaping clear 

To give the world a flower. 

Rare tints of green the landscape sheen 

A summer's glory growing, 
Sweet the breeze from out the trees 

The hedge in bloom is glowing, 
With dip and swing the swallows wing 

Across the meadows beating 
The silvery chink of bobolink 

Is pouring forth a greeting. 

The winds abide at even tide 

A mystic calm is falling 
As deeps the shade within the glade 

The whippoorwill is calling, 
The moon's fair light rounds out the night 

Morpheus's circle keeping, 
To spell the hours when bird and flowers 

In Nature's fold are sleeping. 



Maine in Verse and Story 77 



THE FROST KING'S REIGN 

Hard lies his hand, o'er all the land, 

Deep fraught the pines are bending, 
Strong forged the sheath, where dark beneath, 

The fettered streams are wending. 
The bound lakes moan, in fitful tone 

Protesting "wrinkles" lifting, 
While o'er the glow, the mist of snow 

His blighting breath, is drifting. 

So, 'til he feels the spell that steals, 

As love, dead hearts to waken, 
The waft of spring, on quickened wing, 

And, Lo, his power is shaken, 
Then, falls the chain, and free again 

The hills and vales rejoicing , 
To greet the showers, that wake the flowers 

And crown the happy voicing. 



Maine in Verse and Story 



"THE SITUATION'S WORSE"* 

"Oh, John! Oh John, look up, poor soul, 

Hear what the papers say; 
That fifty thousand tons of coal 

Arrived in port today! 
This lot must sure the famine stay, 

So haste for half a ton, 
And plenty more is on the way 

When this supply is done." 

With lightened heart, John quickly hied 

To the dusky diamond yard, 
But on the office door he spied 

A huge forbidding card. 
"No orders taken here," it read, 

In words both crisp and terse. 
"There's little hope," the dealer said, 

"The situation's worse." 

"Oh, Jane! Oh Jane, pray do not weep, 

For here's a saving gleam; 
There's sixty craft, with coal weighed deep, 

Just anchored in the stream. 



*\Yritten during the great strike of the coal miners. It is 
the first article in verse that ever appeared in the Boston 
Traveller. This paper was at the time conducting a satirical 
campaign in criticism of the methods of the Boston relief 
committee, and the coal dealers. These verses on submittance 
were at first refused on the ground that the Traveller never 
printed verse, they appeared the following day in the centre 
of a prominent page, in double column. 



Maine in Verse and Story 79 



The dearth is passed, the battle's won; 

It's coal in plenty soon, 
I'll order— yes I'll buy a ton 

Before tomorrow noon." 

With leaping heart, again John hied 

To the slate and screenings yard, 
But on the door again he spied 

The same old dismal card. 
He heard the dealer, wan and sad, 

The same old tale rehearse, 
"There's not a kernel to be had, 

The situation's worse." 

u Oh, John ! Oh, John, hark while I read, 

The great hand never fails, 
Two hundred thousand tons now speed 

From Scotland and from Wales; 
It's just the same as if the mines 

Were dumped right on our shore; 
Bright sunlight on the gloom now shines, 

Our shivering days near o'er." 

John pressed his brow, his face grew white; 

He sobbed and gasped for breath. 
"Then Heaven help our city's plight; 

We now must freeze to death. 
The coal carts now must rest aside 

For the ambulance and hearse, 
Alack, alas and woe betide, 

'The situation's worse.' " 



So Maine in Verse and Story 



THE BREATH OF DEATH 

THIS remarkable chronicle came into my 
possession with certain other mementoes 
bequeathed to me by Mr. Belmont 
Sears. 
For some good reason— probably a promise 
made — he has never made it public. I am prob- 
ably the first who has ever read it. But, as Mr. 
Sears has now gone exploring over the great Di- 
vide, into the great mysterious Beyond, and as this 
record was sent to me with no note of restriction, 
I take it that he meant for me to treat it as it 
pleased me, and I now deem it best to set it forth, 
that the people within the affected zone may decide 
for themselves, whether it is a flight of fancy, or 
whether they do not owe Mr. Sears a monumental 
debt of gratitude for averting a cataclysm second 
only to the deluge of Bible history, according to 
the book of Genesis. 

This much is certain, the "Yellow day" the phe- 
nomenon he refers to, is a matter of comparatively 
recent history, and will be vividly recalled by thou- 
sands now living within the regions affected. 

Another certain thing is, that it has never been 
explained. 



Maine in Verse and Story 8 1 

There were various theories set forth by scien- 
tists, but they were theories only, and were not giv- 
en out as conclusive. 

Of Mr. Belmont Sears himself I can say this, 
that I knew him closely for many years as a man 
of sterling veracity, of both word and purpose. 
He certainly believed what he has recorded or 
he never would have taken the pains to write it, 
for of all his years of travel in remote parts of 
the earth, this is the only scrap of writing that has 
ever been found giving any adventure of his, and 
he must have met with much intensely thrilling 
experience. So the fact that he did make record 
of this, coupled with that of the "Yellow day" 
as witnessed by myself, convinces me that he con- 
sidered it of serious importance. 

As for the "Breath of death," and the astound- 
ing, unbelievable power credited to it, it is no more 
extravagant or wonderful than that of Radium, 
and other such things that are known to be facts 
in the science of today. 

Mr. Sears was of one of the best and oldest 
families, he had inherited ample wealth, he had 
gone the limit of college education, taking general 
studies, but had fitted himself for no particular 
calling. 

It pleased him to spend the most of his time in 



82 Maine in Verse and Story 

travel in the jungle, following the sun in its 
warmth and green. He was an ardent, devoted 
student of nature, and extremely fond of penetrat- 
ing into her wildest and most intricate haunts, 
alone, enjoying and observing closely what he 
found there, as one would read a highly fascinat- 
ing and instructive book. He had visited most 
foreign countries as the seasons came, and had ex- 
plored the most of his own, the United States. 

But, after all, the wilds of the state of Maine 
seemed to please him the most, and during his 
later years he spent the open seasons of each year 
hiking, camping and canoe cruising through that 
vast wilderness tangle of mountain, forest lake 
and stream. 

In such as society ever saw of him, he was the 
perfect, polished gentleman, a brilliant conversa- 
tionalist, and an attractive personality. 

One outstriking trait in his character was his 
marked humaneness. He was extremely consider- 
ate that no pain nor harm should come to any 
living thing, and in all his wandering in the wilds 
he never molested any of its life, except such as he 
would actually need for food, and such as he took 
for that purpose he put out of life and feeling as 
quickly as possible. 

Such was Mr. Belmont Sears, the man, and the 



Maine in Verse and Story 83 

writer of this strange chronicle. I give it exactly 
as he wrote it, in his own words. For such con- 
sideration as it may meet, and for whomsoever 
it may interest. 
"To whom it may concern." 

"To the surviving people of the New England 
States, the lower portion of the Maritime Prov- 
inces, the Eastern line of New York and New Jer- 
sey, who experienced the so called 'Yellow day' of 
September sixth, 1881, and marvelled at its strange 
weird condition, as to what they really were, and 
who are still without that knowledge, I am set- 
ting forth here my remarkable adventures in learn- 
ing what I believe is the true solution. I believe 
that I, alone of all the world know, and that ] 
was destined to prevent a repetition of it at a time 
when the effect would have been most terribly 
different. So terrible, monstrous and unthinkable 
that I shall refrain from any attempt to portray it. 
I will give a faithful account of what I experi- 
enced, and let the readers think and feel for them- 
selves, in whatever way, or in whatever measure 
they may be pleased to accept it. 

But, for the benefit of readers who did not live 
at the time, or dwelt in other lands, and conse- 
quently did not observe the "Yellow day," I will 
give a brief detail of what took place in that re- 



84 Maine in Verse and Story 



markable phenomenon. 

The sixth day of September, 1 88 1, was noted in 
the territory above mentioned for one of the mosi 
remarkable atmospheric phenomenons ever ob- 
served or recorded. The day broke with clear 
skies and a clear rising sun. 

The temperature was above normal for the sea- 
son, the thermometer averaging 70 at eight o'clock 
in the morning. It had been warm for several 
days. About mid forenoon people began to notice 
a strange appearance of the skies, a yellowish mist 
or haze seemed to be moving slowly over it, grow- 
ing more and more dense and pronounced until 
a lurid curtain of yellow green bronze hung over 
the earth. The effect on things of earth were 
startling, grass, leaves and all things green took 
on a vivid paler green, ghastly in its appearance, 
fire and all ordinarily yellow light assumed the 
whiteness and brilliancy of the modern electric arc 
light, stokers of locomotives on passing trains 
looked like imps of the infernal regions, water 
looked like molten silver, the faces of human be- 
ings were of a sickly sallow pallor, nothing looked 
natural. By noon a weird awesome semi-darkness 
had settled over the earth, lights were turned on 
indoors and on the streets, schools, factories and 
business places closed for the day and people went 



Maine in Verse and Story 85 

to their homes to await whatever might be com- 
ing. Timid and superstitious people were greatly 
alarmed. Many were made quite sick by the pe- 
culiar feeling of oppression in the air. Some be- 
lieved the end of the world to be at hand, and 
sought their churches, animals were affected in 
their way, thinking it was night, fowls went to 
roost. In the hearts of the stoutest men there was 
a feeling of unrest, because of a lack of under- 
standing of the conditions. The barometer showed 
absolute fair weather reading. There was not the 
slightest disturbance of telegraph or magnetic in- 
struments. It was eight o'clock in the evening be- 
fore the haze cleared away and the moon and 
stars came out, the Heavens resuming a natural 
appearance. What was it? What did it all 
mean? And what did it presage or portend? 
That was the one great question that was much 
debated and in the minds of all, and they waited 
with expectant suspense for the answer that did 
not come; that never came. Learned men, col- 
lege professors, geologists, astronomers, each 
voiced their theories, but not one of them ever has 
brought forth a conclusive solution. The phenom- 
enon stood in chronology as a great, mysterious 
unsolved happening, and it was let go at that, and 
after the traditional nine days wonder, slowly 



86 Maine in Verse and Story 

lapsed into the great forgotten. 

I was in Boston on that day outfitting for a 
cruise through the lakes and streams of the Katah- 
din region of Maine. The phenomenon affected 
me as a student of Nature who found here a page 
not a word of which I could understand. I could 
not reason out any logical solution that could be 
reconciled to Nature in it, and like the rest I was 
obliged to lock it up in my memory's curio closet, 
until the day might come, when the mystery would 
be solved. 

Ten days later found me on one of the beautiful 
Maine lakes northwest of Katahdin. Its right 
name I do not know, but it is connected with the 
great chain of which Chamberlain is the chief, 
and whose waters are tributary to the St. John 
river. I had left my main supplies on Chamber- 
lain, and had taken enough for two or three days 
and a light canoe, and had cruised through a long 
succession of lake and connecting streams. I had 
paddled and carried up one beautiful wild stream 
until I came to a forks, each branch was no longer 
possible of navigation, and one stream was coming 
down the steep mountain side in a series of beau- 
tiful cascades. From observations taken far down 
stream I was satisfied that somewhere up there I 
should find one of those mountain lakes often 



Maine in Verse and Story 87 

found in Maine. These wild isolated lakes have 
a peculiar fascination to me, and turning my canoe 
bottom up over my head, I battled my way up the 
steep ledges. 

It was a royal climb, many times I stopped to 
rest and glimpse the magnificent panorama laid 
out below me. At last I cleared the summit of 
the gully, and there not fifteen feet away was the 
shore of a lake, a veritable jewel studded in the 
mountains. All around except here at the outlet 
the mountain peaks rose grandly several hundred 
feet higher. The lake appeared to be of about five 
acres in extent, nearly round, and undoubtedly of 
great depth. The stone in the vicinity was clearly 
of ancient volcanic fuse, and the lake beyond ques- 
tion filled the bowl of an extinct volcano. There 
was a narrow rim of sloping land all around, in- 
tervening between the lake shore and the walls of 
the mountain. I launched my canoe delighted in 
the belief that it was the first craft to ply the wa- 
ters of that fairy sea, and myself the first skipper. 
As I approached the opposite side I noticed what 
appeared to be a natural landing of rock, and I 
steered toward it, and I was astonished, chagrined 
to see moored to a stub a stout raft of logs. The 
tie line consisting of bark strip thongs. I 
stepped ashore and immediately found other 



88 Maine in Verse and Story 

evidence of quite recent human presence 
and activity. Had I been in the mountains of 
Tennessee instead of prohibition Maine, I should 
have thought that I had stumbled onto a moon- 
shiners plant. Various implements, and wooden re- 
ceptacles of the crudest kind were lying about. But, 
what at first looked like a still, proved to be a 
smelting furnace. Piles of queer colored slag, 
and specimens of ore entirely unlike anything I had 
ever seen were heaped or scattered about the 
ground. I then believed it to be the work of an 
exploring prospector examining the minerals of 
the region. It had an odd look to it, however, and 
judging by the temporary crudeness of everything 
I concluded that whoever the operator was he was 
alone. It was drawing near sun down, and as I 
did not intend to spend the night up there, I was 
about to embark again for a further view of the 
lake, when I noticed a trail leading off around the 
lake. Hurriedly I followed it. I soon came to a 
small brook, clear as crystal and ice cold. The 
path turned and led up beside it. 

As I neared the mountain wall I was much sur- 
prised to see an opening leading at an angle into 
another glen-like pocket nearly as large as that of 
the lake. It was entirely invisible from the lake 
or any part the outer bowl. My curiosity was 



Maine in Verse and Story 89 

now intensely aroused, and with every nerve on 
edge I pussy footed through the pass and there a 
strange sight met my eyes. It was a perfect hid- 
den glen, a fairy garden. The tall plumes of 
ripened corn were visible above even patches of 
every garden vegetable in common use. There was 
a line of bean poles, pea brush, ripened vines of 
tomatoes, squash, potatoes, patches of stubble 
showed that certain kinds of grain had been cut. 
There were even fruit trees and a riot of late flow- 
ers, two or three hives of bees. I saw no evi- 
dence of cattle, but I heard hens scolding some- 
where. It was the lodge of a veritable mountain 
Crusoe. So astonished and spellbound was I that 
I must have stood there several minutes staring 
at the strange scene. What puzzled me was, 
where the recluse lived. I could see no sign of a 
habitation. I had concluded that he must live 
in some hidden cave, when I noticed a thin line of 
smoke purling out of the ivy close to the mountain 
side. Closer inspection revealed a small hut almost 
covered with the vines, built right against the wall. 
It was not fifty feet from me. 

I now realized that I had violated the sanctity 
of a most holy of holies, and knew not what the 
penalty might be. I had done so innocently 
enough. But that might not be any excuse. Per- 



90 Maine in Verse and Story 

haps I had not yet been seen, and acting on that 
thought I started to steal back, when sounds came 
from the hut and the most remarkable human be- 
ing I ever looked at stepped out into the open. He 
was fully six feet tall, and in spite of his ad- 
vanced age, as straight as the pines of the moun- 
tain. His hair and beard had been long unshorn 
and together formed a shimmering white halo 
around his patrician face. But, the most remark- 
able thing was his garb, which was of patches 
of cloth and the skins of certain small animals. It 
gave him the tattered appearance of Rip Van 
Winkle in {he play. He stood straight and rigid, 
glaring at me with the fiercest expression I had 
ever seen on a human countenance. It was more 
like the face of a snarling male lion. It was evi- 
dent that he was terribly enraged at my intrusion, 
or more likely at my discovery of his retreat. I 
hastened to apologize and explain. 

"I beg your pardon, sir," I said, "I am only a 
harmless naturalist cruising about among the 
mountains. I am here by the veriest accident. I 
had no idea and have no intent to intrude upon 
anyone's right of privacy. I will immediately 
leave the mountain, and I assure you that I shall 
never disclose to any living human being what I 
have seen here today." 



Maine in Verse and Story 9 1 

u Yes. But what in Beelzebub brought you into 
this place? How'd you get here anyway?" 

This he yelped at me in a high pitched voice 
like the scream of a feline. 

I told him just how I had come there, and as 
I talked his face softened. He bored me through 
for a moment with his piercing eyes. "Yes," he 
said, in a half whisper. "I believe him, his is an 
honest face." 

I thanked him for his good opinion, and hast- 
ened to further assure him that himself and his 
retreat should never be spoken of or revealed by 
me, and that I would at once return down the 
mountain, and never trouble him more. I started 
to do so. 

"Wait! Don't go yet," he said, "I want to 
ask you some questions now you are here. I 
don't speak to human beings only about once or 
twice a year. When I go out to the lumber camp 
wangan to get a few supplies. But— where were 
you on the sixth?" 

It was the date of the "Yellow Day." I told 
him that I was in Boston. 

"Oh," he said, in a disappointed tone, "I had 
hoped that you might have been nearer, in Maine. 
Then his face brightened. 

"Well," he continued, "Have you heard of any- 



92 Maine in Verse and Story 

thing unusual happening on that day since you 
came up this way?" 

Then I started to tell him what had happened 
in Boston, but was hardly prepared for the effect 
that it had upon him. 

"Boston?" he shouted, "Boston? You don't 
mean to tell me that it went as far as that, do 
you? And produced such an effect? Why boy, 
that is four hundred miles. " 

I smiled, and as luck had it, I had the front 
page of a paper in my pocket that I had taken 
with me to look over again. I handed it to him. 

He grasped for it eagerily. His hands shak- 
ing. His whole body quivering. His eyes seemed 
to throttle the words that were written there. I 
stared at him amazed. When he became con- 
vinced of the facts I never saw such a transfor- 
mation in a human being. Jekyl and Hyde were 
far outdone, for his was real. His face from 
that of a venerable old man became that of a tiger 
with an antelope in its claws, and the taste of red 
blood on its chops. His eyes dilated, his mouth 
opened wide showing a lone tooth at each side 
like fangs in a tigerish laugh. His hands clutched 
and opened like huge talons. He licked his lips 
and his whole frame shook like a cat's stalking a 
robin in the grass. He was terribly excited. Singu- 



Maine in Verse and Story 93 

larly so. At last he dropped the paper, lifted his 
arms toward the Heavens with his face upturn- 
ing like Dantes on the rock, and cried out in wild, 
exhultant tones : 

'The world. The world is in my power. Aha, 
I can crush them now, like rats in a trap. Destroy 
them as did the deluge." 

For several minutes he screamed and laughed 
like the harsh cry of the hyena, utterly unmindful 
of my presence. Then he thought of me. He 
paused. His face softened. 

"Oh, you must excuse me," he said, "But the 
monstrosity of it completely undid me. I am all 
right now. I had no idea — but you don't know— 
what this means to me. Young man, you have 
brought me great news. A great— a terrible sat- 
isfaction. I owe you a great debt of gratitude, 
and now I am going to ask you to accept my hos- 
pitality for the night at least, and perhaps I will 
tell you— something of myself." 

I would much rather have left him and gone 
down the mountain, and far away from there. I was 
very doubtful of staying. I fully believed him to be 
a maniac, liable to do violence. I was not afraid 
of man or beast, ordinarily, but there in his fast, 
wild stronghold, I might not pit myself against 
his cunning. He seemed to sense my thoughts. 



94 Maine in Verse and Story 

"Oh, no," he said, in a voice soft now as a 
woman's. I am as sane as you are, and would 
not harm you. There is my rifle on the wall. 
Take it if you like and keep it with you while 
you are here." 

I laughed heartily. He joined me. I made up 
my mind to stay and take a chance, and I accepted 
his invitation. 

The neatness of his cabin interior surprised me. 
I have seen many houses presided over by good 
housewives that were no better kept. The furni- 
ture was mostly of his own rough making. But it 
was clean and serviceable. 

Pages might be written about his wonderful 
hermit home and its surroundings, but my object 
in writing this tale is not of that, no more than I 
deem necessary for the better understanding of 
the real story. It is enough to say that this won- 
derful recluse had more than enough of all that 
he wanted for his comfort and sustenance. He 
went out now and then in favorable seasons to the 
Camp store and got a few such things as he could 
not raise or procure in the wilds about him. The 
storekeeper or whoever he met on the way 
paid no particular heed to him, as hunters, trap- 
pers and all sorts of rough looking characters are 
common enough in the wilds. 



Maine in Verse and Story 95 

He soon prepared an ample savory supper of 
baked beans, boiled eggs, corn and wheat bread, 
honey, fruit and berries and tea graced the table. 
I mention these things to show that he had plenty 
to eat. 

His manner toward me was now of the kindest. 
It was the calm after a storm. I was still mar- 
velling at his strange excitement over the Yellow 
Day, but he did not refer to it again, neither did 
he make any inquiry of the world that had made 
such great changes since he left it. His talk was 
mostly of me, and he seemed intensely interested 
in the semi-hermit life I led most of the time my- 
self in the same wilds. 

After supper, sitting there in that strange inte- 
rior, in that hidden high mountain fastness, the 
old man told me his life story, who he was and 
what he told me there in the light of his hearth 
fire must remain his secret, suffice it to say that it 
was the old story of great wrongs done him by 
relatives, friends and even the woman he trusted 
and loved, robbing him of about all he possessed, 
and his subsequent failure to get redress in the 
courts. This mountain retreat was really on his 
own land, but tied up in litigation. There was no 
usable timber on the mountain, and it was out 
of the way of hunting parties. Taking his time, 



g6 Maine in Verse and Story 

and by stages, he had conveyed in there the foun- 
dation of such things and creatures as he should 
need for the life he intended to live. Pigs, goats, 
fowl, cats, with the squirrels, rabbits and other 
larger wild animals of the region were his asso- 
ciates. I listened with deep interest, and a certain 
sense of fraternal feeling, for while I had nothing 
but love and respect for humanity. I loved best 
the solitude and associations of Nature, and its 
life, animate and inanimate. 

"I have not told you all about myself," he said. 
"I may decide that it is best not to. Tt is too late 
to tell more tonight at any rate. We will sleep on 
it, and see what the morrow brings forth. 

In another room he had a comfortable bunk of 
sweet balsam boughs, and clean coverings. 

"You will sleep well there," he said, "And I will 
lie on the lounge in the living room." 

I still considered him much unbalanced. I did 
not now blame him so much. I had gained a cer- 
tain confidence, that, as he said, he would not 
harm me. I knew that he had taken a deep lik- 
ing to me, and of a truth my sympathy had strong- 
ly gone out to this lone old man of the mountain. 
I think he sensed that, and that it affected him. 

I did sleep well, and when I stepped out into the 
beautiful glen in the morning the sun was lighting 



Maine in Verse and Story 97 

the tops of the mountain peaks. It would not 
light the floor of the glen for two hours yet. It 
was quite warm. There had been no frost yet at 
that altitude. The old man coming from his 
chores greeted me warmly. He soon prepared a 
sumptuous breakfast of trout fried in bacon, baked 
potatoes, corn bread and coffee. 

Later we sat outside watching the sun rays come 
down the slope of the ridges. We had been silent 
for some moments. The old man seemed com- 
bating with his thoughts. 

"Young man," he said, finally, "1 have come to 
like you in a way that I can't explain. I had in 
my mind a terrible revenge on the world that has 
wronged me, and driven me from it. To send a 
terrible visitation down upon them, and destroy 
them, by a power that was given me. But I don't 
think I shall. Now, that I have seen you, I would 
not harm you, or yours, and I am going to tell you 
the rest of my story, and of my terrible secret." 

I had not dared to look at him, for I knew he 
would divine my thoughts, which were, that he 
was madder than I had thought him to be. 

In his early days he had taken up the study of 
chemical science, and at the time of his exile he 
had made great progress. Some valuable discov- 
eries. He had brought with him to the wilds, cer- 



98 Maine in Verse and Story 

tain of his needs and appliances to enable him to 
pursue his studies and experiment on such material 
as he might find in the region. 

"It was while reducing a strange ore, probably 
of volcanic origin, that I found in the mountain 
near here," he said, "That I produced a residue, 
that by the merest accident I found to possess a 
most astonishing power. If I had not happened to 
see its effect on a pet squirrel playing in a tree near 
me, I should not have been here to tell you my 
story. 

Here he went into the hut and brought out a 
glass jar filled with a white substance like baking 
powder. 

"There," he shouted. "See that. I have 
named it the Breath of Death. This chemical if 
dropped into clear cold water,— no matter how 
vastly greater the proportion of the water may be, 
—will instantly cause the water to become violently 
agitated as in boiling, and it will throw off a dense 
yellowish vapor that will expand and spread rap- 
idly, covering— if the chemical is sufficient — a vast 
area of territory in a very short space of time. But, 
that is not the most astonishing, the most 
appalling feature of it. One inhalation of 
this vapor into the lungs of any air 
breathing creature means its death, and at that 



Maine in Verse and Story 99 

very moment, one or a thousand, it would be all 
the same, and none would have known what killed 
them." 

I sat staring at him, too amazed to speak at his 
monstrous claims. 

"There is enough in this jar," he went on, u To 
destroy a whole township. With a quantity pro- 
portionately larger I can devastate a dozen states. 
A recent demonstration I have made on a larger 
scale verifies this statement I think, according to 
your own words, and those of the newspaper." 

I gasped. "What do you mean?" I said, 
"What have I told you about any vapor? or what 
have you seen in the paper?" 

He smiled, "I mean just this," he said, "That 
what you have all seen and have called the 
Yellow day, was nothing more or less than the 
vapor created by about two barrels of this chem- 
ical dumped in the lake down there about nine 
o'clock on the evening of the sixth. I placed 
it on a raft, trigged up so that by pulling 
out a prop it would tip into the water. I paddled 
it across to the outlet, then I stepped ashore and 
pushed the raft back out on the lake. I had a 
fifty foot bark thong attached to the prop, at that 
distance out I pulled out the prop, and then as it 
was warm and the vapor would rise, I ran down 



ioo Maine in Verse and Story 

the mountain to a cave, where I staid for the night, 
far out of harm's way. Had it been cold, I should 
have probably been safe enough up here, as then 
it would have flowed over the rim on the open 
side and down to spread on the lower level. But, 
if I should see that it would rise as high as this, I 
could easily go up the east peak there and keep in 
safety to myself." 

That was the crowning climax of his astound- 
ing story, hurled at me in words that pounded in 
my ears like the boom of thunder. Flashing on 
my mind as he spoke, came the. existence of the 
rough raft, the queer furnaces, and strange ore 
and the heaps of slag, that I had seen down on 
the lake. All stern, silent proof of a portion at 
least of his monstrous claims. That was the first 
rude shock. But I soon smiled at my foolishness. 
The furnaces might of a matter of course be 
there, for his use in chemical research. The ore 
and slag might be that of any harmless mineral. 
The raft he would naturally have on the lake. I 
saw it all now. But I admired him for his clever- 
ness in taking advantage of the conditions of the 
"Yellow day" to weave such a fabrication. Only 
a master brain could have conceived such a thing. 
He certainly read my thoughts. 

"Oh, no," he said, "You are not listening to 



Maine in Verse and Story 101 

any phantasy of a wronged old man's disordered 
brain. No man is saner than I. No words ever 
spoken are truer than all that I have uttered con- 
cerning this chemical. 

"A-a-ah," he screamed. "They are too true, 
perhaps. But, I shall not ask you to accept my 
words. Eyes my boy, eyes are better than ears, 
and your eyes shall see, beyond doubt or argu- 
ment." 

He entered the hut and came out again with a 
thick coat and a blanket over his arm. 

"Come," he said. 

He led the way across the garden. Half way 
along we came to the brook I had followed up to 
the glen. A pail sat beside it. He dipped it full 
of the cool water and proceeded toward the steep 
mountain wall. Wondering, I followed. At its 
base we halted. High up in the clear sunlight 
a hawk was circling. 

"We are now going into my cold chamber," he 
said, "but before we enter I want to explain. In 
experimenting with this vapor I discovered that 
in a warm temperature, say above 50, it will rise 
until it strikes a cool strata in the upper atmos- 
phere, and it will spread there on a plane far out 
of harm to anything of earth — that was what hap- 
pened on the Yellow day. But, in a cool temper- 



102 Maine in Verse and Story 

ature. Ah, the result is different, different. Be- 
low 40 it will spread on the lowest plane it can 
find which is of course the earth's surface. It is 
well below 40 in where we are going, and we must 
put on these wraps or we will get sickness and 
chills." 

He put on the rough coat, and handed me the 
blanket, which to humor him I wrapped over my 
shoulders. When he unfolded the coat I was 
surprised to see a red squirrel in a small cage. 
On the wall of the mountain he opened a strong 
rough door, and we stepped into a dark passage 
in the rock. A blast of icy coldness struck us, 
which made me thankful for the blanket. A mo- 
ment later a light flared up from a thick wick in 
a dish of fat. Then another, and another, until 
every recess of the chamber was lighted. It was 
some thirty feet in extent, nearly square. The ceil- 
ing about a dozen feet above us. The floor was 
damp, and thick ice gleamed on the sides. Car- 
casses of deer and smaller game hung about the 
place, and I saw rude boxes and earthen jars. He 
set the pail down in the middle of the grotto. He 
handed me the squirrel. 

"Remember now," he said, "Do just as I tell 
you, and when I tell you, and no harm will come 
to us. Now, take a pinch of the chemical in your 



Maine in Verse and Story 103 

fingers and drop it into the pail." 

He held the jar toward me. I took perhaps a 
teaspoonful and dropped it in the water. To my 
astonishment the water began to roll violently, 
then, up over all sides of the pail a creamy mass 
as thick and compact as dough, poured down to 
the floor, and began to spread with great rapidity 
in all directions. In a moment it seemed it had 
reached the walls, and then like water it began to 
slowly rise. 

If I live to be a thousand I can never forget 
that scene. In that wild ice cold mountain dun- 
geon, the flicker of the strange lamps, the weird 
light cast on the face of the old wizard, turned 
toward me, silently gloating at me in my first 
awakening to this awful truth. The hellish sub- 
stance curling about my feet, creeping, creeping, 
up, up, to toward my knees. 

"Now," he said, "put the cage down on the 
floor, keep hold of it, and lift it again at once. 1 ' 

The little creature was darting about in his 
prison in the full vigor of his life. I stooped and 
set the cage down in the vapor. Almost in the 
same moment I lifted it out again and I was 
horrified at the sight that met my eyes. The 
squirrel was lying limp and motionless on the bot- 
tom of the cage. 



104 Maine in Verse and Story 

The old man took him from me and striding 
toward the doorway, placed the cage on a shelf 
and returned to my side. This was the second 
shock, the second fusilade of solid shot the old 
man had hurled into the fortress of my doubt. 
But he had not fully subdued me yet. That his 
chemical would produce the vapor, and that the 
vapor had killed the squirrel, was now beyond 
question. A visible fact. But, what it would do 
out in the free open atmosphere, that it would 
spread over so many miles, and kill all within 
it, I still doubted. I did not, however, blame the 
old scientist for thinking so, in the face of the 
Yellow day. If as he claimed he really had 
dumped such a quantity into the lake, but that 
was in the night, and he could not have seen what 
it did. No, I still believed the Yellow day 
to be of some natural origin unknown only to the 
Creator. But I was thoroughly alarmed now for 
our safety. Involuntarily I moved toward the 
doorway. I had no appetite for a breath of the 
vapor. The old man smiled. 

"Don't be alarmed," he said, "We will get out 
before it gets high enough to harm us. He had 
extinguished all the lights now, but the one near 
the door. This made the place more ghoulish 
than before. In the lone sallow light he trulv 



Maine in Verse and Story 105 

looked like some old imp of the nether world. My 
discomfort, and conflicting thoughts were as an 
open book to him. The awful mass was now at our 
very arm pits. "Heavens," I thought, in another 
minute only it will — 

"Follow me," he said, "Quickly." And never 
was I more ready to obey any command. From 
the shelf at the door he took the cage and ex- 
tinguished the last light. For the moment then 
we were in total darkness. My heart came into 
my throat, and the ice on the walls was not colder 
than my spine. 

"Now," he shouted, "Hold your breath and run 
well out into the glen." 

He pushed the door suddenly outward, at the 
same instant I dashed into the blessed sunlight, 
and half way to the brook. Then I stopped and 
looked back. The old man was not far behind 
me, with the squirrel stiffening in the cage. He 
meant that I should see that it was really dead. 
But my attention was now directed to the moun- 
tain wall where the great mass of vapor was ris- 
ing and spreading in a great funnel, until in a 
minute it seemed the whole sky of the bowl was 
obscured, and then an astonishing thing happened. 
My knees weakened. I caught hold of a small 
tree for support. My brain reefed and I choked 



106 Maine in Verse and Story 

for breath. It was the Yellow day repeated. The 
sun disapepared. The same yellow bronzen ap- 
pearance of the heavens. The same ghoulish cast 
and color of everything about me. I clung to the 
sapling almost paralyzed with fear. A tumult of 
thought surging through my brain, until a sharp 
thud on the ground behind caused me to cry out 
and wheel around. There on the ground lay the 
hawk that but a short time before I had seen sail- 
ing in the blue air hundreds of feet above. It 
was the last straw that broke the camel back of 
my last remaining doubt. I was satisfied now 
that I knew the origin of the Yellow day. Satis- 
fied too, of the truth of every claim the old wizard 
had made as to the terrible power he possessed 
over the world, that he blamed for his wrongs. 
This terrible thing rightly used, would devastate 
an empire, destroying anything that breathed it. 
I had seen enough to satisfy myself as to the truth 
of that. What was I to do? I realized that a 
most terrible responsibility rested upon me. That 
I alone, one infinitesimal atom of all humanity 
stood between millions of souls and their destruc- 
tion. Wild and monstrous as it was it was true. 
Was ever a man placed in such a situation be- 
fore? Could I avert it as it was? I realized 
that I must above all keep my head. Make no 



Maine in Verse and Story 107 

false step. Do nothing to create any suspicion in 
him. I hardly dared to think, and the truest part 
of it was that the world would never believe it, or 
give me credit for whatever I might do. He had 
been busy shutting up the cold chamber after the 
vapor had all come out. When he led the way I 
followed him back to the hut. The sky was clear- 
ing when we again sat before the hut. He was 
the first to speak. 

"Well, what do you think of the Breath of 
Death?" he said. 

"That it is rightly named. That it will do all 
you claim for it. That you have stumbled upon 
a fearful discovery, a terrible engine of death. 
But, do you really mean to use it? Those who 
injured you are probably all dead now, and you 
will only kill innocent people who never heard of 
you, to do you wrong." 

"No," he said, "I do not think that I shall use 
it. Now I would not harm you. Yes, they are 
all dead, but the world is just as wicked, just 
as vicious and unjust toward one another. The 
paper you brought here shows that, in what I read 
while you were sleeping last night. How do I 
know but tEat the Almighty has put this in my 
hands to destroy them, as people were destroyed 
in Bible times?" 



108 Maine in Verse and Story 

"Because in that same Bible he says: 'Thou 
shalt not kill. Vengeance is mine. I gave life 
and I will take it away.' I replied, and it im- 
pressed him, for he did not speak again for some 
moments. If I could but keep him pacified, I 
thought, until cold weather should lock up the 
mountains, much might happen before favorable 
conditions would come to him again. I did not 
believe that he had sufficient amount of the chem- 
ical to do much harm, as he had probably used it 
all on the sixth. I knew nothing of his source of 
the ore, or how long it would take him to pro- 
duce enough of it, but I felt that it had not taken 
a very great while to make what he had used on 
the Yellow day. All sorts of plans and things 
flashed through my mind, none of which seemed 
feasible. I might try to overpower and confine 
him until I should go out and alarm the authori- 
ties. But that was a great risk. He was a pow- 
erful man despite his years. He might best me, 
and then he would be sure to hurl his vengeance 
upon the world, and would anyone believe such a 
story if I went out and told it? Certainly they 
would not. They would only laugh at me. I 
realized that a man like him, possessed of such 
an engine of destruction, was a dangerous thing to 
leave alone. The only plan I could come to was 



Maine in Verse and Story 109 

to keep near him. Cultivate his favoiv I be- 
lieved that he would not harm me if I was with 
him or if he knew I was near by. I had intended 
to go far up through the wilds, but I could give 
that up now. To avert such a calamity I decided 
to gain more of his favor. Keep his thoughts on 
other things, and bring him to desire that I should 
be near him. Visit him at least once a week, and 
in that way hold him off until winter. These were 
the plans that surged through my mind in the brief 
interval that passed after I had recited the scrip- 
ture. 

"No," he said at last, "I will not harm anyone 
now. It is satisfaction enough now to know that 
I have them in my power." 

But he rose to his feet, his eyes took on again 
that wild, animal leer, the Jekyl and Hyde 
change. He screamed again in a high pitched 
feline voice. 

"A-a-Ah, I can crush them. Yes, crush them; 
waking or sleeping; indoors or out. My Breath 
of Death will reach them. Steal upon them like 
a mist in the night. It will make no sound. Give 
out no odor. Nothing can be felt in its contact 
with the flesh. Ya-a-ah, I hold them — in the 
grasp of my hand,— the old man, driven out into 
the mountains,— far away from them. I can hurl 



1 10 Maine in Verse and Story 

down upon them my Breath of Death, and none 
will know what killed them. A dead dead world be- 
hind them." 

He danced about grotesquely. His hands 
clenched. Now at full height. Now half crouch- 
ing, in a wild fiendish stare. I feared now that 
his mind had given away altogether, and I might 
not be able to restrain him. For several minutes 
he danced, gesticulated and raved. Then he 
looked at me. His face softened. His attitude 
changed and he was Dr. Jekyl again. 

"I know you will excuse me," he said. "But 
you can never know how I feel. The terrible sat- 
isfaction. I had to give it vent. But it is over 
now, and I will be calm enough." 

I began to talk about his wonderful garden, 
and his life in the region. He became interested 
and told me much that was instructive. He showed 
all of his wonderful garden and home outfit. A 
fascinating tale could be told of it, but I have 
digressed too much already. I stayed with him 
two days. He pressed me to stay longer. I knew 
that he had grown to like me greatly, which as- 
sured me. Neither of us had again referred to the 
vapor. I told him that I must return to my camp 
on Chamberlain, but that in four days I would re- 
turn and stay with him a while. He was pleased. 



Maine in Verse and Story ill 

He followed me down to the rock landing on the 
lake, and stood there waving to me as I went 
over the ridge where the brook goes down. Now 
followed the most trying experience of my life. I 
know now how it is possible for hair to turn white 
in a night. I hope never to live through such a 
thing again. It was toward night on the first day 
that I discovered that I was on the wrong stream. 
That I was on water entirely unfamiliar. It did 
not alarm me greatly at first. But I was annoyed 
at the delay it would cause. I retraced my course 
firm in the belief that I should soon find the right 
way. But in this I was completely baffled, and in 
another hour the truth dawned on me, that for the 
first time in all my wanderings into those wilds I 
was hopelessly lost. That part of it did not so 
much concern me. It was the hermit. I might not 
be able to keep my promise to him. He would be 
suspicious that I too had betrayed him, and in 
his fury he would work day and night to get a 
supply of the chemical and hurl it upon the world. 
It was appalling. I made a leanto of boughs for 
the night. I had enough to eat for two days, but 
to my horror I had but six matches. I had fishing 
tackle, and with snares I might get partridge and 
rabbits, but that would kill time. I hoped to ex- 
tricate myself the next day, but the night found 



112 Maine in Verse and Story 

me more astray than ever. I was beat out and in 
desperate straits. I shall not go into the harrow- 
ng details of those awful days of fear and 
suspense. The fourth day, when I should have 
been on the mountain I was in the same distress, 
and the week that followed I shall never forget. 
It came on cold. Every hour I scanned the skies 
for evidence of the terrible vapor. A thousand 
fears tormented me. Then an icy rain set in. My 
matches gave out and I suffered severely. In 
endeavoring to catch food I had but little time to 
seek my way out. But such as I had I spent in 
tracing and retracing every stream and arm of 
strait between the endless maize of the lakes. The 
night of the twelfth day I was bordering on sui- 
cide. I sat under a dripping cedar the most of 
the night. I knew that a marked cold snap would 
follow the rain. I had firm belief that the hermit 
had been busy. He might have given allowance 
for reasonable delays on my part, but continued 
absence would be sure to lessen his confidence 
and confirm his suspicion that I had played him 
false. How I endured that night I shall never 
know, but at last dawn came and the rain ceased. 
The sunlight made it slightly warmer. I had 
made up my mind that further search was useless. 
The forest was thick, obscuring any chance of see- 



Maine in Verse and Story 113 

ing very far in any direction. I had climbed many 
trees in my efforts to identify some mountain or 
other landmark, but all in vain. I was drifting 
aimlessly along in the belief that there was noth- 
ing now to do but remain lost and die. When I 
came out where there was an open barren on one 
side a stranded boulder near the shore looked fa- 
miliar. I ran the canoe ashore and was soon 
overjoyed to find that it was one that I had ex- 
amined closely on my way to the mountain stream. 
A few minutes* study revealed other familiar 
things, and I soon made out the way I had pro- 
ceeded on my former trip. I was not but a few 
hours from the mountain stream, and with a new 
life and hope I strained every muscle in the effort 
to gain the mountain retreat while the day was at 
its best. I arrived at the foot of the cascades 
about the same time as I had on the first trip. I 
did not take the canoe this time, but hurried up 
the gorge as fast as I could empty handed. I 
found the lake lying calm and deserted. I hast- 
ened around the shore to the landing. Several 
rude boxes stood by the furnace. I lifted the cover 
of the first. Heavens it was full to the brim of the 
hellish white mass. The rest of the boxes proved 
to be the same. There was enough to cover twice 
the territory before affected. Frantically I grasped 



114 Maine in Verse and Story 

them one by one and scattered their contents far 
back into the woods, away from the lake, kick- 
ing the leaves and dirt over the hellish stuff to 
prevent it from washing down to the lake in case 
of rains. Then I hurried along to the glen, and 
there a strange sight met my gaze. Where the 
hut had stood was now a heap of ashes and black- 
ened timbers. I rushed forward. On a sapling 
standing near a fold of paper was tacked, writ- 
ten on it with a pencil was my name. I took it, 
unfolded and read it. As I had feared the her- 
mit, angered and suspicious at my absence had re- 
duced enough of the chemical to destroy an Em- 
pire. Then he began to give me day by day of 
grace, fearing to launch his vapor because of the 
thought that I might be innocent, and helpless 
to return. At last driven to desperation he had 
set a lighted candle in a pile of shavings, so that 
when it should burn down it would set the shav- 
ings afire and burn the hut, and all within it. 
But long before this could happen, sitting in his 
chair, he had dropped a small portion of the 
chemical into a pail of water and ended it all, as 
far as he was concerned, by the Breath of Death. 

Belmont Sears. 



Maine in Verse and Story 115 



*ON OLD SUNKHAZE 

Amid the rolling forest downs of Thirty-two, 
There lie dark bowery valleys winding through 
Rank sheaves of fern and vine wove trees bend 

low 
O'er spring born crystal rivulets that flow 
Pure sheltering waters for the troutlet clan 
Fast barred from wiles of rod and lure of man 
And clear and strong from out the tangled maze 
Where joins its tributary, "Indian Brook" 
Flows u 01d Sunkhaze." 

Here broad enchanted meadows sweep and roll 
To turn "Woodpecker point" and "Windy knoll." 
Anon great girted elms their awesome domes up- 

send, 
And clustering alders mark the water's trend, 
The flower decked swale breast high of spear, 
Oft riven with the trail of deer 
Toward some hid pool to drink the brew and 

gaze 
In the rippling liquid cool of "Old Sunkhaze." 

Now breaks the spell the waters wake to pour 
Adown steep rip and fall with rush and roar, 
The "Long sluice," "Horse race" wild, and "Gim- 
let hole" 
All famous haunts where, fit for truest pole, 

♦Sunkhaze stream in Township 32, and Greenfield, Penob- 
scot and Hancock counties. 



1 1 6 Maine in Verse and Story 



Lie speckled Vet's alert with ready eye, 
To strike invading worm, and flick'ring fly. 
And wage a royal bout with he who strays 
The wild deep fens and dells of "Old Sunkhaze." 

The true disciple dwelleth here near Nature's 

heart, 
And feels and sees and lives a kindred part, 
Familiar notes of bird and bee rend to his ear, 
The whispering pine the locust's drill lull solace 

here, 
Oh blest indeed is he who knows the sign and 

tongue 
And in this hallowed wilderness has roamed and 

sung, 
The feast within his memory clings and stays 
And draws him thirsting back again to "Old Sunk- 
haze." 

In winter's fettering hours when chill winds blow, 
And plain and stream are sleeping deep 'neath ice 

and snow 
The faithful sit and live again in fireside dreams 
The happy days they've dwelt by thee oh Prince 

of streams, 
They hear perhaps the purl of rip the laugh of 

fall, 
And longing hope to sense again the welcome call, 
When they man Pilgrim back to thread those gold- 
en ways 
Along the wild deep fens and dells of "Old Sunk- 
haze." 



Maine in Verse and Story 117 



WHEN THE BIRDS ARE ON THE WING 

Old "Sport" is getting "shifty," isn't lazing in 

the sun, 
He keeps the cats a climbing, and the chickens on 

the run, 
He sniffs around the closet where the shooting 

traps repose, 
And gazes toward the "shopping" with an upward 

tilted nose, 
For, over on the ridges he has heard the welcome 

ring 
That the hunting time is open, and the birds are 

on the wing. 

The dawn is sharp and bracing, and the sky a 

deeper blue, 
The maple and the sumac taken on a ruddy hue, 
The tinted leaves are falling and the hedge is 

getting bare 
There's a captivating odor of the woodland in the 

air, 
And from every nook and corner, Nature's forces 

seem to sing, 
That the hunting time is open and the birds are on 

the wing. 

The duck along the logans are skimming o'er the 

swale, 
And over from the cover comes the piping of a 

quail, 



1 1 8 Maine in Verse and Story 



The woodcock hurtles upward on the fringes of 

the dell 
The wily snipe is drilling in the loaming of the 

fell, 
While the partridge on the sloping of the ridges 

loves to cling, 
When the hunting time is open and the birds are 

on the wing. 

The fishing rod is idle though its memory is dear, 

And with reel, creel and tackle must await another 
year, 

Now the fowling piece and game bag are the or- 
der of the day 

As over hill and valley we shall wend a happy 
way, 

While out upon the breezes every worry we will 
fling, 

When the hunting time is open and the birds are 
on the wing. 



Maine in Verse and Story 119 



HIRAM'S RETURN 

Yes, I'm home again, from the clatterin' train 

An' the city's dins an' jars, 
An' I've been out to the pasture lane 

And leaned across the bars, 
I've smelled the ground and the fields around 

An' drank its peace an' calm — 
An' say, they're welcome to their town 

But, I'll stay on the farm. 

This much I'm worth of this ol' earth 

My cows, my hens an' sheep, 
An' the food an' fire that cheers my hearth 

Is growin' while I sleep, 
The pure sweet air, an' my humble fare 

Is mine by God's decree 
An' there ain't no trust o' Satan's lair 

Got any grip on me. 

The sharks control their wood an' coal, 

Their ice, their oil an' flour, 
The vulture's own 'em self an' soul 

An' grind 'em hour by hour, 
It may be life an' style— but say, 

'T would stick tight in my craw 
To have some blasted trust to pay 

For the very breath I draw. 

My boy, 'f your good for a rod o' soil 
Take my advice an* stay, 



120 Maine in Verse and Story 



Where the man that ain't afraid o' toil 

'11 get his honest pay, 
Need no one's favor, fear no frown, 

An independent charm, 
That I hain't seen in your cultur'd town 

But I hav' found on the farm. 



Maine in Verse and Story 121 



*AND THE SEA SHALL GIVE UP ITS 
DEAD 

At last, the sea reluctant yields its dead, 
The last sad rite performed with solemn tread 
The vigil's o'er, now falls the tear drenched veil 
On this, a long and heart pierced bitter tale. 

Full youth's bright zest of life had they, 
As that fair morn they sailed the peaceful bay, 
None reck'd on tempest foe to lurk and leap 
And strike them down to death within the deep, 
Thus rend in twain bright home's most precious 

tie, 
A father's strongest hope, a mother's all to die. 

Fair rolls the sea, and ever hearts must writhe, 
But here the waves have claimed a heavier tithe, 
On such as these depends the hope of State, 
On such as these the scrolls of fame await, 
These are a country's pride, a nation's stay, 
Mould of its strength of future swept away, 
So, bends a city's head in tears to share 
A kindred grief for these it's stricken fair. 

*Written after the recovery of the last body, of eight high 
school boys of Bangor, drowned by the capsizing of a sail 
boat in a sudden storm in Penobscot Bay in the fall of 1907. 



122 Maine in Verse and Story 



SEPTEMBER 

The bard man tune of his day in June, 

And musing ask, "What is so rare?" 
We'll not gainsay its garb is gay 

Its breath is sweet its skies are fair, 
But, rarest hues, and joys profuse 

And scenes the longest to remember, 
Come with the haze of golden days 

That greet and thrill us in September. 

The fields are shorn, in stacks the corn, 

In pyramids the pumpkins glow, 
By hedges nod, the golden rod, 

And starry purple asters blow, 
In red and brown the boughs weigh down, 

With Baldwins, Russets full and round, 
While here and there mid all the fare 

The farmer's cheery shouts resound. 

On every hand the hillsides grand 

With trees bedecked in matchless shades, 
The plover's pipe, the grouse and snipe, 

Are rising in the ripened glade, 
'Mid reed and brake, with rippling wake, 

The wild ducks glide and dip their bills, 
The harvest moon, the plump raccoon, 

The hunter's heart in rapture thrills. 

None less the praise of summer days, 
They grow the wealth of golden fare, 



Maine in Verse and Story 123 



That autumn's hand lifts from the land 
And gives to each his mete and share, 

So, let us sing, its glories ring, 

The month of all the welcome member, 

That brings good cheer for all the year 
Salubrious, bounteous gay September. 



124 Maine in Verse and Story 



THE BANGOR FAIR 

The gala days are almost here, 
The greatest week in all the year, 
When crowds from everywhere, 
On wagon, trolley, boat and train, 
From every highway, street and lane 
Will flock to the hustling hub of Maine 
To see the Bangor fair. 

There'll be the crazy screaming swirl, 

The dizzy midway's rampant whirl, 

Where "Barkers" rend the air, 

And drums will beat and trumpets blow 

For many a flaring wonder show, 

And everybody's sure to go 

To see the Bangor fair. 

There's peanuts, 'pop and lemonade 
And every sort of game that's played. 
You'll surely find it there. 
The blow up toots's familiar strain, 
The red balloons and striped cane, 
It makes us feel like kids again 
To see the Bangor fair. 

There'll be big cattle, sheep and swine, 
Dandy stepping trotters fine, 
Wild West wonders rare, 
Amazing acts to beat the band, 
Fireworks, bombs and rockets grand, 
A luckless man that's not on hand 
To see the Bangor fair. 



Maine in Verse and Story 125 



It only comes but once a year 
This rousing rife of fun and cheer 
That can't be found elsewhere. 
Don't miss the time of all your life, 
But take a day from toil and strife, 
And bring both old and young and wife 
To see the Bangor fair. 



126 Maine in Verse and Story 



*THE LARCHMONT 

111 fated vessel, true to Neptune's realm, 
Long years she answered e'er the helm, 
And braved the waters she was built to sail, 
The "norther" of her parent state, and Fundy's 

gale, 
Undaunted met, and best within her gave, 
To breast and o'er the hungry wave 
Bear precious burden, safely, year by year, 
From port to port, where waited friends to hear, 
Her welcome blast, that beat from sea to shore 
Glad tidings of voyage gained once more. 

Then, banished she, afar, to waters new, 

Rough stripped of name, with alien crew, 

She sailed to greet again no more, 

The castled heads of Maine, and 'Brunswick's 

shore. 
No more to hail responding blow, 
That came from 'Quoddy Head, and Point Le- 

preaux. 

No blame on her, staunch Cumberland of old, 
That such a bitter story must be told, 
A thousand hearts that held her dear of yore, 
As scenes of happy memory surge before, 

♦Formerly the Cumberland, plying for many years from 
Boston to Maine and New Brunswick ports, afterward con- 
demned and sold to the Long Island Sound service, and re- 
named the Larchmont, and later sank in a collision at the 
heati df the Sound* 



Maine in Verse and Story 127 



Will drop a tear, true as the beating wave ' 
That swells above her exile ocean grave, 
The rest, her honored hulk has found, 
There in the broad deep gateway of the sound. 



128 Maine in Verse and Story 



OUR VOLUNTEERS* 

They've gone, respondent to their Country's call, 
They've severed precious home, and social ties, 
While bitter tears were shed, and deepest sighs, 
Theirs has been a noble sacrifice, 
God bless these youthful heroes one and all. 

Just as comes the time of sport and game, 
When Nature on their well loved state bestows, 
Her fondest smiles and richest favor shows, 
They haste to leave it all to meet the foes, 
And keep aloft their country's honored name. 

These are the best of our city's blood and bone, 
Her pride, her greatest hope of future years, 
On these our watch will fall, in hope and fears, 
'Til o'er our land no cloud of war appears, 
Nor at our doors distress and hunger's tone. 

Their vacant chairs we'll guard in silent pain, 
We know they'll meet and do their duty well, 
Some may return with saddened hearts to tell, 
How comrades in the battle bravely fell, 
But, none will tell that one of these forgot the 
Maine. 



♦Written on the day of the departure of the Bangor volun- 
teers to the Spanish war. 



Maine in Verse and Story 129 



LINCOLN 

Dedicated to the allied patriotic societies, the 
Grand Army of the Republic, The Ladies' Re- 
lief Corps, the Daughters of Veterans and the 
Sons of Veterans. Read at People's Temple, Bos- 
ton, Mass., Lincoln night, 19 13. 

With hearts o'erflowing, on his natal day. We 
breathe his name, 

The name, inscribed the highest, in our hearts own 
Hall of Fame, 

The name, that stands for highest thought, of hu- 
mane mind and might, 

The name that stands for Justice, Freedom, 
Equity, and human right. 

Of lowly, cabin birth, was he, and scion of the 
humblest clan, 

And, yet, he rose to win the highest place be- 
stowed by man, to man. 

Ancestral pride, inheritance, advantage, he had 
none, 

All that he was, to all that he attained, alone 
he won. 

Thus, peace on earth, good will to men, was his 
great aim of life, 

But fate had willed, had reared him to, a fear- 
some strife, 



130 Maine in Verse and Story 

A strife a thousand fold the more appalling to his 

heart, 
Since it in fiercest hate had rent his own loved 

land apart, 
And, greater, graver dangers too, he knew were 

lurking nigh, 
Where jealous Empires crouched, and watched, 

with venom's eye, 
Our country's vaunted standards, links of Union, 

all, 
Stood shaking, while these foes looked on, to see 

it fall, 
Impending crisis, then, was hovering there, and 

his, to grasp and stay, 
A task to make a mighty Ajax quail, a Titan, 

halt and sway. 

Who, ever, of mankind was weighed in such a 

scale before? 
And, who, in all fulfillment, ever gave to country, 

more? 
His master thought, his quickened sight, his force 

of hand, 
Unflinching guidance, firm diplomacy, command, 
To slavery's unholy reign, he bade its bondage 

cease, 
His ready hosts, through war's dark night, brought 

victory, and peace, 
And, last, at triumph's dawn, he gave his blood 

as well, 
Though foul the hidden blow by which he mar- 
tyred fell. 



Maine in Verse and Story 131 



A century's half of healing years, have swept 

away, 
Since to the tomb, they bore, his hallowed clay. 

The tomb, where memory lessens, as the years roll 

on. 
And others enter, mind and place, the vestments 

don. 

But, is our Lincoln thus forgotten? Is he dead? 
Has such a gloried memory from the living, fled? 
No, Lincoln lives, forever will, in heart, in ear, in 

eye 
For such as he, such deeds as his can NEVER 

die. 
He lives, and not of us alone, but over all the 

world, 
Wherever history's most gloried scrolls have been 

unfurled, 
He lives, in our great country's honor saved, kept 

undefiled, 
He lives in all its hearts united now, and recon- 
ciled, 
He lives, in every veteran's bronzen badge and 

battle scars, 
He lives, in our loved flag's unsullied stripes, and 

undimmed stars. 

They tell us that he was ungainly, and that homely 

was his face, 
He had no sculptor's mold of form, nor poise of 

grace, 



132 Maine in Verse and Story 



The better then, it might reveal, what dwelt with- 
in, behind. 
The higher ethics of a loftier soul, an abler mind. 

Will history's gloried writ so bright outshine 

again? 
Of such as he, from out the walks of men, 
If, ever man whose feet earth's sands have trod 
Has won the right to see, to walk, with God, 
'Tis He, who wins of Heaven's goal will see him 

there, 
Where all is peace, and love, is bright and fair. 

And, yet, words fail, seem void, of what we fain 

would voice, 
When e'er we strive to laud. We mourn, and 

yet, rejoice, 
Perhaps he best would have us simply say of him, 
As, when on Gettysburg's red field, with eyes 

adim, 
He said of them, the other heroes slain, 
"These Honored dead— shall not have died in 

vain." 



Maine in Verse and Story 133 



THE REMICK CASE 

PROBABLY nowhere can more strange 
and mysterious things happen, furnishing 
food for superstition, and foundation for 
wild legendary lore, than in the vast wil- 
derness of forest, lake and stream in Northern 
Maine. 

Most guides and sportsmen are firm believers in 
these "signs" and omens, and without their witch- 
ery life in the woods would be to them robbed of 
half their charm. 

It is a rare thing to find an old woodsman who 
is not loyal to certain traditions of this sort. There 
was one guide, Duff Baker, who stubbornly ta- 
booed everything of such nature. He asserted that 
there is nothing supernatural, not the slightest 
sense in any of the so-called "signs," that noth- 
ing can happen— however mysterious and unex- 
plainable it may appear — but what if sanely sifted 
down, a perfectly logical solution will be found 
for it. This heresy on Duff's part subjected him 
to much banter from his associates, and they would 
have given much to see the old guide floored. 

Duff was retained by the year by Belmont Ellis, 
a wealthy New Yorker, to guide, cook and look 



134 Maine in Verse and Story 

after his camps and property in the Pleasant river 
region of Maine. Ellis himself was a faithful dis- 
ciple of the Goddess of witchcraft, and he persist- 
ently endeavored to convince and convert Duff. 
But the old guide always argued him down, get- 
ting the best of it. Ellis thought he had him in 
the Remick case, and while Duff presented a very 
logical explanation of the affair, and the follow- 
ing remarkable series of happenings, still Ellis felt 
and believed that Duff's defense had been for the 
once jarred severely, and it would be no wonder, 
so weird and ghoulish were the circumstances that 
it would have driven some men from the region, 
if not from the woods altogether. 

Silas Remick, at the age of twenty-five, when by 
the death of his father he became sole master of 
the "Remick place," was considered a model young 
man, as well as an able and efficient farmer. The 
"Remick place" was regarded as one of the finest 
farm homesteads in Maine. 

Silas was possessed of not one bad habit. He 
was a faithful worker, early and late. He had ac- 
quired a good common school education and was 
credited with being the most "well read" man in 
the neighborhood. The only recreation he ever 
indulged in was a few days hunting in the fall, 
and trout fishing on rainy, or holidays in season. 



Maine in Verse and Story 135 

Silas's favorite trout brook was about half a mile 
from his home, it was a wild mountain stream, and 
its source was "Devil's Lake," one of those pe- 
culiar mountain lakes often found set in a pocket 
high up in the hills of Maine. There were strange 
uncanny stories about this lake. It was a strange, 
unnatural looking place. It was four or five acres 
in extent, nearly round and said to be unfathom- 
able in depth. High black cliffs rose almost per- 
pendicular all around it, except at the outlet gorge. 
It was probably fed by springs somewhere in its 
depths, and this was ample enough— even in dry 
times— to send down from it, in the brook a good 
flow of water. It was clear and cool, and a para- 
dise for the speckled tribe who like just such wa- 
ter. 

The tradition concerning the lake was that it 
was haunted by some sort of Geni-i, or Gnomes, 
that had the power of drawing a once visitor to 
the lake back again at will, and finally into the 
lake, to still live, but to be seen no more of men. 
This wild story was laughed at by most of the 
natives about there, but be that as it may, none of 
them ever went very near the place, and Silas had 
never set his foot by its shore. He had seen it 
from the vantage of a distance on the cliffs of the 
gorge. He had been advised by his father earlv 



136 Maine in Verse and Story 

in his youth not to go there, and so far, he had 
obeyed. He could not confess to any real fear 
of the place, or belief in the reports concerning it, 
but he had simply respected the wish of his father, 
and had never gone further up the stream than the 
falls below the outlet gorge which was nearly a 
quarter of a mile from the lake. One spring Si- 
las's mother began to notice that he was taking 
an unusual number of fishing trips, and she became 
alarmed when she saw that he was neglecting his 
stock and farm. When she gently remonstrated 
with him he took it good naturedly promising that 
he would cease his fishing and go to work, but in 
reality he went oftener. He seemed distrait and 
unnatural. He returned regularly about the same 
time every afternoon and always brought home 
plenty of trout. It was a terrible source of trouble 
to his mother who did the best she could and said 
nothing about it to the neighbors, but they were 
noticing it. This went on until he went every day, 
and all the work he did was nights and mornings. 
One afternoon he did not come home at the usual 
time. When darkness began to fall his frightened 
mother sent out an alarm to the neighbors. They 
started a search for him at once with lanterns. 
They went to the stream and followed up the well 
beaten trail to the falls of the gorge, but found no 



Maine in Verse and Story 137 

trace of him. With solemn faces they went up 
into the gorge and were surprised to find the path 
well beaten there. Half way along the level of 
the gorge to the lake they found his hat, fishing 
rod and creel, and what the minks had left of his 
catch of trout. There was no evidence of any 
struggle, and no tracks of any animal large enough 
to have molested him. A further search of the 
entire gorge failed to reveal any other trace of 
him. The party returned to his home and report- 
ed what they had found. His poor mother was 
prostrated. She knew of the stories concerning 
the lake, but had really never believed them. She 
was surprised to learn that he had been visiting the 
lake. She was sure now that he had met his 
death there in some way, and feared that it might 
be by the haunt of the lake, as she knew that Si- 
las's father would never go there, nor his father 
before him, and it had been rumored that the 
grandfather had been once molested there by some 
strange terrible things that had sought to drag him 
into the lake. Searching by large parties, made 
up of neighbors from far and near continued for 
days and weeks, but no further trace was ever 
found of him. Attempts were made to drag the 
lake, but its great depth prevented success. It 
was the death of Silas's mother who did not 



138 Maine in Verse and Story 

survive the shock. It was the one great topic and 
wonder about there for many months, but like all 
things it gradually died out. But the place was 
greater feared and shunned than ever. This hap- 
pened five years before Belmont Ellis opened his 
camp on Loon lake, three miles from Devil's lake 
stream. He soon heard of the Remick case, but 
not through Duff who was always reticent about 
talking about it. Duff had known young Remick. 
and his father, and liked them both; had been one 
of the longest searchers. One night in the course 
of an argument on things supernatural, Ellis in his 
extremity flung the Remick case at Duff. 

u What have you got to say about that?" asked 
Ellis. "You ain't saying much about that, eh? If 
there is nothing supernatural then what become of 
Silas Remick?" 

"There is nothing to say, because the boy was 
drowned, and that is all there is to it," said Duff. 

"Drowned! How could he have been drowned? 
There was no boat on there, and he wouldn't go 
in swimming— not with his clothes on. There nev- 
er was any fishing there— everyone says so. Now, 
why should he continue to go there day after day 
and let things go to ruin ? Probably he went there 
in the first place out of curiositly or as a dare. But 
what took him back there again, and again? And 



Maine in Verse and Story 139 

what got him at last? Answer that." 

"My theory is," said Duff calmly, "That he 
went crazy on that one thing. The story regard- 
ing the lake was probably always on his mind. It 
affected his brain. Finally after his father died, 
and he considered himself free from his obliga- 
tion and his own master, he went there— as you 
say, out of curiosity, then he fancied that some- 
thing was calling him back, and he went, and so 
on, all the time getting more and more crazy." 

"Well, that's first rate Duff," said Ellis, "But 
isn't that the very story as it goes ? That there is 
something that will draw anyone back there. He 
went, didn't he ? There is no disputing that. But 
we will let that part of it go. What got him fin- 
ally? That is what I want to know." 

"Why I reckon that in his madness he expected 
that something was to come out of the lake and 
get him, and when nothing did, he simply thought 
he must go in himself and he did. He probably 
weighted his pockets with stone and jumped in; 
that's easy." 

Ellis smiled, and sat and looked at the old lo- 
gician. 

"Say," he flung out, "I've got a curiosity to see 
that place. Do you dare go?" 

"Certainly I'll go," flashed back Duff, "If you 



140 Maine in Verse and Story 

say so. We'll start now. I hope you don't think 
I'd be afraid — and who knows?" he said smiling, 
mebbe we might happen to solve the whole thing. 
Stranger things happen." 

The next morning it looked rainy, but about mid 
forenoon the sun came out, and taking a light ca- 
noe over their shoulders they started on a hike to 
Devil's lake stream, and then along its rough side 
up the steep climb to the entrance of the outlet 
gorge, then followed along this to the lake. Duff 
pointing out the place where they found Silas's 
hat and things on the way. It was certainly an 
awesome place. Ellis was startled at the uncanny 
wildness of it, as he looked it over it appeared 
to him to be the crater of a long extinct volcano, 
but the most peculiar part was the outlet. It 
looked like a canal cut out of the solid mountain. It 
was nearly an eighth of a mile long and very deep. 
The mountain wall rose straight up on one side of 
it. But on the other there was a narrow shelf-like 
passageway overgrown with low scrub. Ellis had 
never seen just such a place, and with its strange 
history he had a creepy feeling such as he had 
never before experienced. They had spoken but 
few words. It was about noon, and the full flood 
of the sun's rays penetrated and lighted up every 
recess of the vast pit. Ellis was thankful that they 



Maine in Verse and Story 141 

had not come in a cloudy day. 

Duff launched the canoe and they were soon 
gliding out towards the middle of the bowl, both 
facing front. Ellis could never truly describe the 
sensation he felt as the great walls of the far side 
loomed higher and higher above them, and the 
black recesses under the overhanging crags of the 
far side drew nearer to them. Duff had ceased 
rowing for the moment and they sat gazing about 
at the strange scene. Suddenly there was a sharp 
break in the water a few feet in front of the canoe, 
and out shot something several feet in the air. It 
glinted for a moment in the sun and fell hurtling 
back slap on the water almost within a hand reach 
of Ellis, where it lay bobbing up and down on its 
own ripples. 

Both of them sat for a minute too dumbfounded 
to speak or move. Ellis finally turned and looked 
back at Duff who sat motionless, his bronzen face 
slightly paled staring at the bottle, for that is what 
it was, and now within reach of Duff's hand, and 
he bent and took it, and dropped it into the canoe. 
Then he started and paddled back to the shore 
from where they had started. There they landed 
and Duff took the bottle and carried it up on the 
shelf of the ledge. Then he handed it to Ellis. 
The magnate took it, handling it gingerly. It was 



142 Maine in Verse and Story 

a pickle bottle with a large mouth. It was corked 
and seemed corroded or glazed so that its contents 
were not visible. Ellis took his knife and pried 
out the cork and drew out a roll of paper appar- 
ently the leaves of a diary. They were damp. 
Stuck closely together, and were written on with 
a lead pencil. He separated them and laid them 
on the rock to dry, which took but a minute in the 
hot June sun. Neither of them had spoken. When 
he had gathered the leaves again he sat down 
and read the first few lines to himself. Then he 
handed them to Duff and asked him if he knew the 
writing? 

"The guide scanned the writing closely for a 
moment and said, "Yes, it is Silas Remick's." 

"You read it then," said Ellis, and Duff read 
as follows: 

"I know not the place, the hour, day, month or 
year. I only know that I live and think. I will set 
forth as clearly as I can under the conditions and 
with the limited means at hand what has been my 
terrible fate. The first time I went up through the 
gorge to the Devil's lake, I went to satisfy a long 
time curiosity. I saw nothing remarkable, other 
than the place itself, and came home. A day or 
two later I had a strange desire to go to the lake 
again. I shook it off for a day or two, but on 



Maine in Verse and Story 143 

the fourth day I went fishing on the brook and 
then went up to the lake again. I simply had to. 
I did not have will power to resist the desire to go 
there. I saw nothing out of place that day, but 
the desire to go there again became each time 
stronger. I had been going there a month before 
I first saw the frog men. They were standing on 
a shelf of rock on the far side. At first I thought 
they were men, but when I got a clear view I saw 
that they were some strange creatures all body and 
head with queer legs and arms. There were two 
of them and they stood as tall as a good sized 
man. They were naked and looked like giant 
frogs, and they walked erect. They seemed to 
beckon to me. I was terribly frightened and 
started and backed away along the path until I 
had got half way along the outlet, then I ran and 
never stopped until I was well down the stream. 

I never meant to go near the place again, or to 
even fish the brook. But that is where I did not 
know the terrible power or whatever it was of that 
awful place, for go again I had to and did within 
a week. 

I saw the frog men often, but always on the far 
side, and as they did not molest me I soon got to 
not mind them so much, but I had always the fear 
and belief that they would get me. At last I was 



144 Maine in Verse and Story 

going there every day. I had gone there for sev- 
eral days and had not seen the frog men, when one 
day I had been to the lake and sat on the rock as 
usual for about half an hour and had started back. 
I got half way along the gorge when I was almost 
paralized to see the two great frog men rise right 
up in the path before me. It was terrible. There 
was no way of escape. I was completely hemmed 
in, and at their mercy. They were upon me in an 
instant. Then I tried to fight them, but they pin- 
ned my arms one on each side of me and rushed 
me over the bank of the outlet. They had great 
strength. Instantly we were under the water and 
that is all I remember. It was all done in a mo- 
ment. The next thing I did know I seemed to 
wake up in a strange place and in an unnatural 
element. I breathed in a peculiar gasping manner. 
There was a dense feeling of pressure all about 
me. I saw dimly at first. Then it got clearer. I 
was in a large grotto in the solid rock. The strange 
phosphorescent light seemed to shine from every- 
where in the rock. I saw one of the frog men 
near me. Then he disappeared. I found that I 
could move, I could walk. It was hard at first, 
but by moving my hands in a swimming motion I 
got along quite well. There was no outlet that I 
could $ee ? 



Maine in Verse and Story 145 

I realized then that I was in the water, prob- 
ably at a great depth, and living as water crea- 
tures do. My clothes were still on me. I felt no 
pain, nor hunger. I never have since I have been 
here. But I think that is the worst of it. 1 
sleep. I am always in some dungeon. I have 
been taken by the frog men to different ones in 
different parts of the earth depth. When we go 
from place to place there is a change in the light 
overhead. I believe it is the light of the world 
above. And it was this that had led me to try 
and send up a message, that the world may know 
of my awful fate and profit by it, and keep far 
away from the Devil's lake. For the stories about 
it are true, as I know. Oh, so terribly well. I had 
in the pocket of my coat a pickle bottle that I car- 
ried some pickles in for lunch. I had emptied it, 
rinsed it out and corked it tight. I had an old 
diary and the stub of a lead pencil. I found that 
I could write quite well in the water with the pen- 
cil, and in that way I have written this message, 
by keeping the bottle upside down I can draw out 
the cork and slip the message up into the bottle 
without letting in water. Then when I am in what 
I think is open water I shall release it, and it will 
rise to the surface of the lake and be picked up 
by some one, I hope, and then the world will know. 



146 Maine in Verse and Story 

I do not ever expect to come back to the world 
again. If it were not for my mother I would not 
so much care, but I know how she has suffered by 
my actions. But this is how it is. I have had to 
do it. I had no power to prevent it. Perhaps 
they will some day let me come back, and I will 
do the best I can. If my mother is alive tell her 
this, and that I hope she will forgive me, and un- 
derstand it. I am getting to the end of my diary 
leaves. This is about all anyway. Keep far away 
from the Devil's lake. I wish I had. Good bye 
to the world; everybody. God help me. 

Silas Remick." 

Ellis watched the old woodsman, now and then 
flashing a furtive glance down the outlet, drinking 
in every word of the message that he read, but for 
the shame of it he would have fled from the place 
in utter rout. 

Duff, however, seemed in no hurry to go. He 
folded the leaves deliberately and sat looking at 
them as he would have the open casket of Silas 
had it been before him. Ellis was sure enough 
that Duff had met his Waterloo at last, that he was 
fairly bowled off his high pedestal, and thoroughly 
scared as he was, the satisfaction to him of this 
superseded the terror that he felt of the place and 



Maine in Verse and Story 147 

the remarkable happening. A huge black cloud 
had come over and the bowl was almost in dark- 
ness which added to his terror. 

Ellis spoke first, "Well, Duff," he said, "What 
have you got to say now ? Anything supernatural 
about this? 

Duff looked up innocently. 

"Why, no," he said, "Why, do you think there 
is?" 

"Oh, no," said Ellis, "Most natural and com- 
monplace occurrence in the world. 

Oh, come now Duff, come off, own it up 
that you are properly licked out of your boots. 
But, of course, you can explain it all off hand I 
s'pose?" 

"Why, it is plain enough to me now," said Duff, 
"It is just about as I told you at the camp. Silas 
had gone clean crazy over the thing as many 
another good man has on much less provocation. 
The thing simply got on his brain, and he began 
going there as he fancied he had to, and when 
nothing molested him he imagined up the whole 
thing. The frog men. The capture, His life 
in the bottom of the deep lake. The message— he 
probably wrote it sitting right where we are this 
minute. Then when all was ready he put the bot- 
tle in his coat pocket and floated himself out there 



148 Maine in Verse and Story 

and sank. His clothes he knew must in about 
such a time rot away to shreds, and the bottle get 
its release and be picked up and create the sensa- 
tion that he hoped it would. I am glad this has 
happened, for now I know what has become of 
him. But it is about as I told his mother before 
she died." 

Ellis sat gasping at Duff as he so calmly dis- 
posed away what had seemed a most astounding 
and terrifying visitation of the haunt of the lake. 
Secretly he admired the old man's reasoning. But 
his stubborn refusal in the face of such proof as 
this goaded him. He would have gladly seen the 
frog men or the old boy himself come out of the 
lake right by their side to break the adamantine 
wall of Duff's heresey. Ellis held one more trump 
card he believed and he played it. 

"Yes," he said, "That is all very pretty, but 
what about that bottle coming as it did right in 
front of our canoe. That was there by the merest 
chance on my notion to come there. Something 
having a chance of not one in a hundred million. 
Nothing strange about that, eh?" 

Duff looked up surprised, almost pityingly. 

"Why, our passing there— or anyone's was the 
very cause of the bottle's release," he said. "It 
was just at noon, at the time of the year when the 



Maine in Verse and Story 149 

sun at that hour is exactly overhead. In that bowl 
we cast a strong shadow down there, and disturbed 
a big eel or a big trout— they are in there— and its 
movement in the shredded remains of Silas's 
clothes dislodged the bottle from its now very 
slight hold and it came up. Nothing else for it 
to do. Law of nature." 

Ellis got up and took hold of his end of the 
canoe, and silently they filed out of the gorge. 
The frog men did not appear to them. Duff did 
not expect they would. The next day Ellis moved 
to his camps on Allagumpus twenty-five miles dis- 
tant, and he has never occupied the Loon lake 
camps since. 



150 Maine in Verse and Story 



*T0 "JOCK" DARLING 

No need of anxious watcher by his couch of suf- 
fering now, 

No need of soothing hand to cool his fevered 
throbbing brow, 

No need of baffled doctor to his side with muffled 
tread, 

The grand old Nimrod's wants are gone, his hunt- 
er's soul has fled. 

He loved the mighty forest, where he was bred 
and born, 

To him no sweeter music, than the echoing birchen 
horn, 

To him no greater pleasure than to trail the lordly 
moose, 

With his antlered head, and giant tread, in the for- 
est's deep recluse. 

The forest sires with reverence bow, and dark their 

shadows throw, 
And from the lonely glades the winds are sighing 

sad and low, 
The lakes 'neath bonds of ice and snow, join in 

the requiem, 
They loved him, and they mourn the loss of love 

he bore for them. 



*Jonathan Darling, one of the most noted of Maine sports- 
men, a life-long woodsman, guide and warden. He was noted 
for having assisted greatly in driving the wolves that once 
infested the state — and had exterminated the deer — from out 
of its borders. 



Maine in Verse and Story 151 



Many a mountain, vale and trail that knew him in 

the chase, 
Will wonder why he comes no more, and miss his 

"shoe pack's" trace, 
Old Nicatous his favorite lake, whose every shore 

he knew, 
Will miss the sip of his paddle's dip, and the 

kiss of his light canoe. 

Sleep brother, rest thy soul and may it ever dwell 
in peace, 

Until the dawn of that great day, when all of 
earth shall cease, 

Then, if beyoud this broken life, a better shall be 
found, 

Be it to you, your fondest dream, of happy hunt- 
ing ground. 



152 Maine in Verse and Story 



THE CAST OF THE MOTTLED FLY 

Some sigh for the billows dashing, 

With a tarpon fast a lee, 
Or a giant sea bass lashing, 

The swell of a tropic sea, 
Some sing of the leaping tuna, 

In the San Catalina Bay, 
And some would fish for the Ouananiche, 

In the flood of the Saguenay. 

But, me for a mountain shoulder, 

And a Maine rock riven flume, 
Where the stream leaps down a boulder 

And churns scuds of spume, 
That o'er the pool goes drifting 

With the clouds of the mirrowed sky, 
And the hues flash out on spangled trout 

To the cast of a mottled fly. 



Maine in Verse and Story 153 



*NIGHTFALL ON THE LAKE 

The winds subside, at eventide, 

The waters still and calm, 
The wooded steep, is mirrored deep, 

So, double is its charm, 
As grows the shade within the glade, 

The wood thrush pipes and trills, 
The sun's last beam, of golden gleam, 

Bids good night to the hills. 

At darkness fall, the loon's weird call, 

Seeks out its straying mate, 
And bat and owl, come forth to prowl 

From out the forest gate, 
Then, breaks the pall, as over all, 

The moon lifts up to light, 
The mystic scene, in silver sheen, 

And glorify the night. 



*Phillips lake, Hancock county. 



154 Maine in Verse and Story 



*NEARER MY GOD TO THEE 

At midnight, on the vast mid sea, 
The world's most awful tragedy, 
A thousand souls in death's dark throe, 
Adrift, on life raft, spar and floe. 

Pastor, Father, none were there, 

To lift the cross, to utter prayer. 

Were these wrecked souls thus doomed to die 

Without some sign from him on high? 

Ah, no, his hosts on sea or land, 

E'er in the hollow of his hand, 

See, hushed the dying cry and moan, 

Hark, the holy anthem's tone, 

As Heaven's own voice, now cometh ye, 

"Nearer, my God, to thee." 

Thus, Heaven inspired that noble band, 
As on the deck they took their stand 
Sinking, sinking, to meet the wave, 
On the very brink of an ocean grave, 
What there of Country, Station, Creed? 
Just human souls in direst need, 
And sweet hope came, through reed and horn, 
To the dying host on that dark morn, 
E'en as the waters met their feet, 
The brave band peeled the anthem sweet, 
And peace came then, as souls went free, 
"Nearer, my God, to thee." 



*The Titanic, disaster. 



Maine in Verse and Story 155 



A MAINE FOREST DRAMA 

In the great north forest's deep confine 
On a ridge side stood a giant pine, 
Scion of royal line was he 
Of mighty stature clear and free 
His brawny trunk of noble girth 
Far upward from the parent earth. 
And on the ridge close by his side 
As a maiden in her flushing pride 
A comely maple, straight and trim, 
Smooth of trunk and lithe of limb, 
Scarce lifted up her crowning tress 
To meet his first great arm's caress. 

And proud she laughed in trusting glee 
"My noble pine will shelter me," 
What lives there that can shake his hold 
Of root deep cleft in rock and mold? 
"An hundred years" she proudly said, 
"It took to rear his lofty head," 
His is the greatest brawn and might, 
His by far the grandest height, 
And he, as far as eye can span 
Is King, of all the forest clan. 

At first warm drench of vernal rain 
The sap blood coursed the Maple's vein, 
And soon a soft brown tasseled spray 
Festooned each tender sprig of grey, 
Then, burst to leaves of richest green 



156 Maine in Verse and Story 



With two winged pendants looped between, 
When Autumn's harvest breezes blew 
She robed herself in brightest hue, 
Her splendid garb, the rest outshone 
She ruled the forest belle alone, 
And to her lord of sombre green 
She was, the fairest forest Queen. 

But, alas, there came the fateful day 

The ruthless axman passed that way, 

She saw him mete with greedy eye 

The mighty pine from earth to sky, 

And she thought, u what a puny thing is he," 

Beside my noble towering tree, 

Then, at his feet soon rang the deal 

Of stroke on stroke of cruel steel, 

She saw the great pine shake and sway, 

She heard his iron grain give way, 

And thunders beat the hills around 

When his mighty body lashed the ground. 

Alone, on the hillside bleak and bare 

The maple still is standing there, 

She is not as comely, straight and trim, 

But gnarled and seared in trunk and limb, 

She has felt the blight of the tempest's breath 

The keen and bitter sting of death, 

'Tis true, when Autumn's feast holds sway 

She decks herself in the same bright way, 

But her drooping branches softly veil 

A moss grown stump 'neath briar and swale, 

And there, 'til death she will faithful cling 

To the love of her fallen forest King. 



Maine in Verse and Story 157 



*THE WIND AND THE WATERS OBEY 
MY WILL 

Man boasteth his power, and dwelleth in pride, 
That he standeth the laws of Nature aside, 
But, his stone and steel are as rushes frail, 
In the torrent's path, on the cyclone's trail, 
Aye, his vaunted bars, and his pride of deed 
Are swept away as the autumn reed. 
And, there's death in the valley, on plain and hill, 
When, the winds and the waters obey his will. 

♦Written on the Western floods of 1913. 



158 Maine in Verse and Story 



DAN DE LION 

Poets long have sung their praises 

Of the lilies and the daisies, 

And the glory of the violet and the lily has been 

told, 
But, what of Flora's member 
That from April to November, 
Lights the highway and the byway 
With its flaming torch of gold. 

The olden dandelion, 
The golden dandelion, 
The glory dandelion 
With its flaming torch of gold. 

"Tooth of lion/' shade of ages, 
Who so vicious of its Sagas, 
As to foist such vile misnomer 
On this cheery bloom of flame, 
And where e'er the eye is resting, 
There its millions are protesting 
On the hillside and the rillside, 
The injustice of the name. 

The olden dandelion, 
The golden dandelion, 
The children's dandelion, 
And its flaming torch of gold. 



Maine in Verse and Story 159 



*COLUMBIA'S LAMENT 

What's this I hear? Say that again! 

I couldn't have heard aright, 
Our Uncle Sam, that boast of men, 

Now shrinking from the fight, 
That I should live to see this day, 

The thought I cannot fix, 
That we could stray, so far away, 

From the spirit of Seventy-six. 

Why, then we stood but a puny band, 

And bravely met a foe— 
The strongest nation in the land 

No shrinking did we show, 
'Twas forward all, both young and old, 

No quibbling words were spent, 
We were not sold, for greed or gold, 

And what we said we meant. 

Now shall we stand this murdering hand, 

Before our very doors? 
And lend this struggling Cuban band 

No aid from out our shores ! 
It's not so long since we once fought, 

As they're now fighting Spain, 
And are we brought to count for naught 

Our martyrs or the Maine. 



♦Written at the seeming hesitation oi the United States to 
interfere in Cuba. 



160 Maine in Verse and Story 



For all these years before the world, 

We've grown in pride and might, 
Beneath old Glory's stripes unfurled, 

For human lift and might, 
Now shall we see that banner stayed, 

Or lose its honored name, 
Lord God of David, lend thine aid, 

And save us from the shame. 



Maine in Verse and Story 1 6 1 



*THE "HURRY UP" NAG 

Oh, I'm the Bang "Hurry up" nag, 
That hauls the 'bo and the festive jag, 
It's night and day for the same old pay, 
A measure of oats and a bunch of hay, 
The whole year long the same old song, 
The bell goes ding, and the bell goes dong, 
And away I go on the downy stones 
With battered feet and aching bones. 

For many a year I've done my best, 

For the knights of booze and the sons of rest, 

But, never a spell from the sizzling bell, 

Whether my feet are sore or well, 

I sigh, alas, for a week of grass 

But that's a treat I'll have to pass, 

There's naught for me but hustle and hike 

The old blue "Hurry up" over the pike, 

Twenty-four calls in twenty-four hours, 
In this old prohib' town of ours, 
It isn't my deal, to kick or squeal, 
But, I'm no dad dinged automobile, 
My eyelids close for a wink of doze, 
When, ding dong ding the tapper goes, 
And away I go on a round up cruise, 
For they who tarry at the ruddy juice. 

♦Written at the suggestion of a Judge of the Bangor Mu- 
nicipal Court. 



1 62 Maine in Verse and Story 



Yes, I'm the Bangor "Hurry up" nag, 
It's a gay old job and never a lag, 
Night and day for the same old pay, 
A measure of oats and a bunch of hay, 
The same old song, the whole year long, 
The bell goes ding, and the bell goes dong, 
And the only hope to rest my bones, 
Is the trumpet call of "Davey Jones." 



Maine in Verse and Story 163 



UNCLE JED 

HE boarded the train at Portland. You 
could almost hear the calves blat and 
the hens cackle. The car was well 
filled, and he paused hesitatingly be- 
side the only seat with one occupant. The pleas- 
ant looking drummer moved over closer to the 
window and said, "Sit in uncle, sit in." 

Thus assured the agriculturist said, "Thankee,'' 
then jamming his prehistoric bumbazook under the 
seat sat down. He was dressed in plain home- 
spun, and his demeanor was simple, yet the drum- 
mer, a good student of human nature, discerned 
a certain air of self-satisfaction in the glimmer of 
the old man's eye, and the slight upward cock of 
his towsled whiskers, and, always on the lookout 
for a good thing, he proceeded to adroitly make 
him feel at home, and draw him out. The old man 
sensing that he was in congenial company reward- 
ed the drummer bountifully. 

"I s'pose I don't look quite so slick as some of 
them city chaps," he began, "But, I reckon I put 
one over on two of 'em this summer on a little 
scheme— Be you from Boston?" He shut off, 
eyeing the drummer suspiciously. 



1 64 Maine in Verse and Story 

The drummer hastened to assure the potato 
grower that his home was in Chelsea. 

"Oh, I didn't know but you might be one o' 
them ere Boston sport fishermen, them's what they 
were. But, being's you ain't I'll go ahead an' tell 
you 'bout it." 

The drummer told him by all means to do so, 
and that he would be delighted to listen. 

"I s'pose of course you know Senator Tink- 
ham of Saccarappa?" asked the soil tiller." 

The commercial man had never heard of him, 
but he hastily said, "Sure, everybody knows the 
Senator." 

This pleased the farmer and he proceeded. 

"Senator Tinkham's son Harry'n me is great 
friends, when he's home from college he spends 
half his time over to my house, calls me Uncle 
Jed, 'n he'll do anything for me. When he's in 
college he sends me a lot o' readin' an' sech. Wal, 
this spring he sent me some sportin' papers an' I 
read in one of 'cm that the real true sport fisher- 
man didn't use anything but flies for bait, an' didn't 
ketch the trout to eat 'em, but jest for the hauling 
of 'em out, then they'd measure an' heft 'em, easy 
like, an' let 'em go again. Fust off I thought of 
all the Dum foolishness I ever heared of that was 
the wust, then all of a sudden I sot to thinkin', if 



Maine in Verse and Story 165 

that was goin' to be the new style o' fistiin' why, 
here's our state 'propriatin' fifty thousand dollars 
every legislator' to keep them ponds an' streams up 
state full o' trout, an' us fellers down here in Cum- 
berland county— where there ain't any— has to pay 
jest as much towards it as them up there what gets 
all the benefit. Now, if this was the style o' fish- 
in', what was the need of it? Spendin' all this 
money. I've got a little pond on my farm in Sac- 
carappa — never was anything in it but pouts an' 
pollywogs, but I reckoned it would do, so I arsked 
Harry if he couldn't fetch me down a couple o' 
live trout from the Rangeley— he always goes up 
there every spring. I told him I wanted to put 
'em in my pond. He kind o' larfed an' said yes, 
he thought mebbe he could, an' by hokey he did. 
Two whoppers. I didn't 'spose there was any 
sech, harnsome, too, fire spots on their sides and 
bright red bellies an' gills. One weighed four and 
a half and turther five pounds. The hired man 
brought 'em over in a big can. Wal, I cooped 'em 
up in a barrel with plenty of holes in it an 'sunk 
'em in the pond until I'd made a couple o' pens, 
then I put one in each. I left 'em there for a day to 
get used to it. Next day I took my pole an' line. I 
got some flies out o' ma's fly ketcher. I had an aw- 
ful tussle hookin' 'em on. Then I sunk down an' 



1 66 Maine in Verse and Story 

dropped into one o' the boxes, but neither one of 
'em would tech it. That night I told Harry 'bout 
it. I hadn't meant to say a word until I had it all 
perfected. 

He larfed to split, "Why Uncle Jed," says 'e, 
"Them ain't the kind 'o flies you want." Then he 
give me some dinky hooks out of a red wallet. 
They had bunches o' red an' yaller feathers on 
'em. I couldn't see what there was about them 
any trout 'd tech, but he said they was the thing. 
Then he 'splained to me how to swish 'em over the 
water on a slimpsy pole, said he'd show me when 
he come back in a couple weeks. Wal, next morn- 
in' I cut a limber pole an' fixed one o' them feather 
contraptions on my line, pumosheeny bell he called 
it. Then I crep up and whisked it onto one o' 
the boxes. Gee Whillikens, that trout nigh scart 
the gallusses off me the way he lunged up an' 
grabbed them feathers. He must o' thought it 
was a hummin' bird. He thrashed 'roun' some- 
thing awful, I jest held on an' tuckered him out. 
When he come up top I lifted him out. Got the 
hook out easy. Then I patted him an' told him he 
was a nice feller 'n not to get scart. Then I 
weighed 'im on ma's stillyards an' put 'im back. 
Then I went through the same circus with tother 
one. Wal, sir, before a couple o' weeks I had 



Maine in Verse and Story 167 

them two trout eddicated up so'st they'd come 
right up an' hook on every time. An' say, do you 
know, the cusses liked it. Then I let 'em loose in 
the pond an' by Hiokey they worked better there 
'n they did in the boxes. There was a deep spring 
hole out near a big rock, an' they hung out there 
all the time. 'T want far from shore. Wal, when 
Harry come home, I asked him if he knew any o' 
them Rangeley sport fishermen, an' told him what 
I'd read. He looked kind o' queer at me an' says, 
"Uncle Jed what in thunder are you up to? I 
know it's somethin'. Let me in on it. You know 
I'm true blue. Mebbe I can help you." Then I up 
an' showed him the whole thing. Wal, sir, I swow. 
I never seen a man larf like he did. He laid down 
on the shore and howled. I didn't know but he 
had a fit. u By jing, Uncle Jed," says 'e when he 
could set up. "But you are a good one. Yes, sir. 
I do know some o' them very jackasses, an' it's 
true jest what you read about 'em. I'm goin' to 
Boston tomorrow to law school. I'll see 'em an' 
steer 'em down here. He said he'd give ten dol- 
lars to be there an' see the fun. Wal, two or three 
days later a couple o' fellers showed up in a livery 
kerrige from Portland. They said Mr. Tinkham 
told 'em I had a good trout pond an' arsked if I 
was willin' they should try it ? I pretended to look 



1 68 Maine in Verse and Story 

s'prised. I said Wal, mebbe there may be some 
trout in there. That I wa'nt no fisherman, but Har- 
ry was, and he'd likely know. They was more 
anxious 'n ever an' wanted to get right at it. They 
was the two foolest lookin' critters ever I seen, 
dressed in the funniest britches, all corrugated like ; 
come only to their knees, an'— " Here the old 
man broke off and indulged in a fit of laughter 
that attracted the notice of the whole car. "They 
was buttoned onto Gal stockin's." He finally 
guffawed out. "They had coats made o' yaller 
leather. Had on caps with two peaks, one in front 
an' tother behind, an' yaller shoes. Oh they was 
beaut's. My ol' rooster wanted to fight 'em. Then 
they had their fish poles done up in long yaller car- 
pet bags made o' leather. They was in pieces an' 
j'inted together, an' didn't look as if they'd hold a 
shiner they was that limpsy. They had their lines 
on a patent wrirligig an' the same kind o' feather 
hooks Harry 'd give me. They made more to do 
primpin' an' gettin' ready than a gal dollin' up for 
a Sunday school picnic. We started down to the 
pond. They walked in kind o' teeters like they 
feared they'd bust their pants. I dunno how I 
managed to keep on a sober face. Ma was chok- 
in' behind the pantry winder. Wal, it was rich 
when they seen the pond. They stood lookin' first 



Maine in Verse and Story 169 

at each other then at the pond. I pertended to 
be busy gettin' the boat ready. "I'd like to know 
what we ever did to Tinkham," one of 'em says, 
"That he should play such a low down scaly trick 
as this on us. Why, this isn't anything but a muck 
hole. Yas, says tother feller, that's what it is. 
There ain't anything in here but bull lillies and 
snappin' turtles." 

Mebbe it's better 'n it looks, I says. Won't do 
no harm to try it. Wal, he says, we'll try it, but 
this is the last place ever I should expect to find 
a trout in. They got in the boat an' I told 'em to 
try out near the big rock. They started off look- 
in' mighty sour. One rowin' an' tother settin' up 
straight as a sled stake. His arm movin' only at 
the elbow, swishin' his pole, the feathers slappin' 
the water farther and farther out, until I swan to 
cats he was sendin' 'em a hundred feet. I ducked 
into the bushes an' snuk around until I got oppo- 
site the rock, an' lay there. Putty soon he lit the 
hook square over the place where the trout was, 
an' Gee Whillikins, you should ha' seen what hap- 
pened. They both come up together like as if 
dynamite had gone off under 'em. That cuss like 
to fell out o' the boat, an' tother one dropped 
the oars. He'd hooked the small one. I thought 
he'd run all over the pond. They righted thera^ 



170 Maine in Verse and Story 

selves up in a minute, an' I never seen a prittier 
piece o 'work than they did gettin' him up side the 
boat. But they finally ketched 'im in a net. Then 
I never saw two fellers act crazier. They shook 
han's, slapped each other on the back, an' I guess 
they must ha' been ailin' for they took some medi- 
cine out of a funny lookin' leather bottle. They 
made an awful fuss over the trout. Measured 
him, an' weighed him on a shiny little pocket stil- 
yards, an' then let 'im go. Tother feller took the 
rod then, an' in a minit he had the big one, an' 
when they got him in they was plum crazy sure, 
acted wuss 'n they did the fust time. I scrooched 
down an' stuffed grass in my mouth to keep from 
hollerin'. After they'd let the big one go, they sot 
an' looked at each other larfin'. "This is what I 
call a cinch," says one of 'em. 

"Yas," says tother one. "If the ol' Jay only 
knew it he's got the best trout pond in Maine right 
here under Portland's nose." 

"Sure he has," says the fust feller. "An' there 
ain't one of 'em weighs less than four pounds. We 
won't do a thing to this place. Oh, no. Now we 
won't let on 'bout this to the ol' hayseed— "No, 
nor anyone but jest our own push," broke in tother 
one. "Here we've been spendin' twice as much as 
it '11 cost to slip down here any Saturday night— 



Maine in Verse and Story 171 

I don't think the ol' duffer's pious," an' that's the 
way they went on. If I hadn't been so tickled an' 
knowin' how I was havin' the best of 'em, I'd a 
been mad, but I jest lay an' choked myself, an' 
listened to 'em, until they got tired and started for 
the house. I cut up cross lots an' got there fust. 
When they come along I was fixin' a hen coop an' 
I looked up an' arsked 'em innocent like, "Wal, 
did ye ketch any?" 

"Oh, yes," says one of 'em, "We got a strike or 
two. Guess 'taint much of a place for trout." 

"Where be they," says I lookin' 'round. 

"Oh," says 'e, stiffenin' up, "We don't ketch fish 
to kill 'em an' eat 'em. It's only plug fishermen 
that does that. We fish for the sport— the science 
you know. Why we let two go that weighed— 
Here the tother feller nudged 'im, he was givin' 
himself away. "Wal, I'm glad you ketched some," 
says I, an' I'll put in the Boston papers now an'— 
"Oh, no, no, don't do that," they both yelled to 
once, an' they offered me twenty dollars cash down 
if I'd 'gree not to tell anybody, an' give 'em the 
use of the pond to themselves. Said they'd be 
there or some o' their friends 'bout all the time, an' 
pay me two dollars a day each for board besides. 
Wal, sir, they kept their word. I've made more 
money this summer 'n I've made seilin' garden sass 



172 Maine in Verse and Story 

in Saccarappa for ten years, an' now I'm going up 
to Boston to see the subway an' the elevated road, 
an' get ma a new dress. Every little while I'd 
'pear to get uneasy like, an' talk about puttin' it in 
the papers, an' they kep' raisin' me, until I was 
gettin' fifty dollars a week off them two trout an' 
I was givin' a dozen fellers all the fisin' they want- 
ed." Here Uncle Jed paused to let out another 
series of guffaws ,and the drummer joined him. 

"Nex' summer I'm goin' to eddercate a couple 
new trout in case these get wore out. If the State 
had'nt been soakin' me in taxes all these years I'd 
let 'em in on it, an 'see what I'd save 'em. Mebbe 
I'd get a monerment put up to me in Saccarappa. 
A few trout would do the whole thing. Any one 
could have a trout pond right in his back yard, 
an'— Here the train rolled into Portsmouth, and 
the grip lugger had to bid the honest husbandman 
adieu. But not until he had cautioned him as to 
the wiles of Boston, for he realized that the pine 
tree State would lose one of its most brilliant lu- 
minaries if anything should happen to Uncle Jed, 



Maine in Verse and Story 1 73 



THE SYMPHONY O' SPRING 

I can lay no claim o' chattin' 

In Italian, Greek an' Latin, 

Nor to understand the hifalutin 

Op'ry things they sing, 

But, there's talk an' music knowledge 

Not in opery or college, 

An' I'm knowin' what they're meanin', 

In the symphony o' spring. 

I can hear a Stabat Mater, 
By the mighty choir o' Natur' 
I can hear the diff'rent choruses 
The wilderness can ring, 
And, when the trail I'm wendin', 
An' a thousand tongues are rencTing, 
I'm a knowin' what they're meanin' 
In the symphony o' spring. 

Prob'ly I'm an ignoramus, 
An' I lack a lot that's famous, 
But, when I'm in the chapels 
Where the Natur' voices ring, 
Mebbe I'm the one enthusin', 
When the tother chap's a losin' 
A heap o' understandin' 
In the symphony o' spring. 



1 74 Maine in Verse and Story 



THE LEVELLING PLANE OF THE 
GRAVE 

I walked in a great wide city, 

In the rush of its living throng, 
There was wealth and poverty's pity, 

Their own ways surging along, 
One, rolling the highways of splendor, 

One plodding the alley's foul pave, 
The pomp and show, the want and the low 

To the levelling plane of the grave. 

I walked in a city of slumber, 

On its winding paths alone, 
Its hosts just as mighty in number, 

Lay deep beneath markings of stone, 
Some, were tall columns of grandeur, 

Some just a mound and a stave, 
Yet, beneath each lay, the self same clay, 

On the levelling plane of the grave. 

And I thought, ah, the spirit of mortal, 

And of Him, in the manger born, 
And, when at Eternity's portal, 

What then of the pride and scorn? 
Will he, who stooped at the wayside 

The brow of the leper to lave, 
See but a soul, at the call of the roll, 

At the levelling plane of the grave. 



Maine in Verse and Story 175 



WHEN THE SPECKLED TROUT ARE 
BITING 

There's a keenness in the yearning, 

There's an ardor in the dreams, 
Of the days we'll be returning 

To the winding of the streams, 
To the favored haunts inviting, 

Where the speckled beauties shy, 
Will be ready for the biting 

At the angleworm and fly. 

Then the happy day is breaking 

As the winds begin to croon, 
And the heron is awaking 

At the calling of the loon 
And the partridge in the cover 

Is beating out the roll 
To the piping quail and plover 

On the meadow and the knoll. 

There's the woodpecker tapping 

On the gnarling of the snag, 
And the night hawk is napping 

On the shelving of the crag, 
While the hermit thrush is trilling 

In the shadow of the dell, 
And the woodcock is drilling 

In the loaming of the fell. 



176 Maine in Verse and Story 



Then our voices we'll be blending 

With the merry roundelay, 
As our gladdened feet are wending 

To the music of the spray, 
So, with joy our hearts are lighting, 

As the days are drawing nigh, 
When the speckled trout are biting, 

At the angleworm and fly. 



Maine in Verse and Story 177 



THE WHETTING OF THE SCYTHE 

From o'er the heath there comes a breath 

That sets my memory straying, 
To the morning chimes of the olden times, 

In the good old fashioned haying, 
The curling snath, the rolling swath, 

The mower strong and lithe 
And the cheery music of the stone 

In the whetting of the scythe. 

Kalink-kalenk, Kalink-kalank, 

In rhythmic accents ringing, 
Kalink-kalenk, Kalink-kalank, 

No sweeter strain is clinging, 
Kalink-kalenk, Kalink-kalank, 

The mower strong and lithe, 
Kalink-kalenk, Kalink-kalank 

The whetting of the scythe. 

Progression's sway has hushed the lay 

So fraught with hallowed yearning, 
That sacred charm of the dear old farm 

To which there's no returning, 
The ruthless arts from saddened hearts 

Have wrung no sterner tithe 
Than the cheery music of the stone 

In the whetting of the scythe. 

Kalink-kalenk, Kalink-kalank, 
The dewy meadows bending, 



178 Maine in Verse and Story 



Kalink-kalenk, Kalink-kalank, 
The song bird's voices blending, 
Kalink-kalenk, Kalink-kalank, 

What deep emotions writhe, 
Kalink-kalenk, Kalink-kalank, 

The whetting of the scythe. 



Maine in Verse and Story 179 



*TO REBECCA R. PIERCE 

Sweet singer, Time has stilled 

The tunings of thy Lyre, 

No more its peans of soul uplift 

Shall e'er be rung, 

But, songs thy guiding Muse 

Inspired before, to lift us higher 

Yet live, yet dwell in heart, 

Can fall from tongue. 



*Rebecca R. Pierce, of Orrington, Maine. 



180 Maine in Verse and Story 



AUGUST 

Some say that thou art dull and sere, 

And useless are thy days, 
I say them nay, of all the year 

No month wins greater praise, 
'Tis thy ripe breath that gilds the grain, 

That paints the tint and flush, 
On all the gain of hill and plain 

And rounds the apple's blush. 

Thy misty shade and tempered shine 

Fulfills the bond of May, 
That sent forth shoot of spear and vine 

That harvest time should pay, 
So too thy days of round and ripe 

Foretell the coming soon 
Of plover's pipe, of duck and snipe 

On heather and lagoon. 

Avast the dolts that cry thee down, 

Thy days of growth and gold, 
Their partings mar not thy renown, 

Thy mission multifold, 
So August, Hail, long be the spell 

Thy wand wafts o'er the land, 
The harvest well, the tale shall tell, 

The blessings of thy hand. 



Maine in Verse and Story 1 8 1 



THE BLOOM OF OUR OWN APPLE 
TREE 

There's the rose of the Florentine bowers, 

And the famed cherry bloom of Japan, 
And the wonderful tales of the flowers 

Off in China, far Malay, Hindoostan, 
But, in May time, in legions of glory, 

Our homeland's full blown apple tree, 
In a rare tinted, sweet scented story, 

Surpassing all others to me. 



1 82 Maine in Verse and Story 



THE TRIUMPH OF HIRAM PERKINS 

HIRAM PERKINS is a tiller of the 
soil. His little domain is snugly 
tucked in amid the hills of Washing- 
ton County, Maine. It consists of a 
round three hundred acres of land, equitably di- 
vided into tillage, pasture and woodland, each 
portion bounded by stout fences, or trim stone 
walls. His citadel consists of a two story house 
and ell. A commodious main barn, two or three 
smaller ones, and numerous other outbuildings for 
the storage of grain, all kinds of vehicles, farm 
machinery and tools. These are all trim, well 
painted and "kept up." 

As a farmer, Hiram is not of the ordinary kind. 
He differs considerably from the common run. 
He conducts what is really a large farm business, 
and yet, in the carrying on of this great amount of 
work, no other human hands than his own as- 
sists in it, with the one exception of possibly an 
"extra hand" or two in haying time. 

Hiram is a strategist and an inventor. He be- 
lieves that the winds and the waters, and certain 
beasts were made and given for the use of man, 
and that man has been endowed by the Creator 



Maine in Verse and Story 183 

with brains to show him how to work it out to 
apply these things to his service. 

If Hiram had displayed half as much inge- 
nuity in any other walk of life he would have had 
volumes written about him, his face would have 
been familiar, and his name a byword through- 
out the land. But, being as he is but a plowman, 
and he has used this talent to lighten up the bur- 
dens of his calling— and his own in particular— 
he is regarded by his fellows as "cracked," or 
plum crazy altogether, and many firmly believe 
him to be "possessed." But, none of these things 
worry Hiram. He cheerfully pursues the tenor 
of his bent, and enjoys his reward. 

To be sure, his neighbors have the common 
compliment of farm machinery. But, they are 
dearly bought with hard round dollars, and they 
do not cover the whole field, for Hiram has some 
sort of a Dingus— of his own devising and manu- 
facture — to do about everything connected with 
his farm duties. They are crude and rough per- 
haps — roundly derided and laughed at by his fel- 
lows—but they do the trick just the same, while 
the jeerers delve it out of their bone and muscle. 
And the satisfaction in the knowledge of this to 
Hiram, supersedes all sting of banter and ridi- 
cule. A good size brook runs close by his build- 



184 Maine in Verse and Story 

ings, on this he has built a dam and a rough wa- 
terwheel which furnishes good power in a roomy 
shop, here he does no end of things. Builds all 
his inventions and fashions his tools and appli- 
ances, besides, he saws his fire wood and lum- 
ber, churns his butter, turns his grindstone and 
makes his cider. He has a forge where he shoes 
his own horses and sled runners. He sets his 
own tires and hammers out every needed thing. On 
the roof of his main barn he has erected a wind 
wheel, this pumps water for his house and cattle, 
runs his threshing machine and corn sheller, and 
cut the fodder. 

Wherever he goes about town he always picks 
up all the old odds and ends of discarded ma- 
chinery, abandoned vehicles, scraps of old iron 
or coils of wire, everything of this kind is grist 
to his mill, and furnishes him with much valua- 
ble material to pursue his work with. 

No crows, woodchucks or other crop destroying 
creature ever tarries long on his premises. Tramps 
give his place a wide steer in fear of traps and 
spring guns, reputation of which have travelled 
far, even his neighbors when occasion arises that 
they must enter upon his domain, always travel 
in prescribed paths. Such was Hiram in the glory 
of his ingenuity and surroundings, and the en- 



Maine in Verse and Story 185 

joyment of the fruits thereof. 

But, in all this, as there always is, there was the 
one blight, the one galling sore spot in his trium- 
phant career, and it rankled deep. Hiram's pas- 
ture—a small township of itself, lies half a mile 
distant from his barn. It is reached by a narrow 
lane leading directly from the barnyard. In a re- 
mote corner of it there is the worst "hagus hole" 
of a swamp that defiles the fair face of the earth. 
It is a net work of pools knee deep in black muck 
and slimy green ooze. These slough holes lie be- 
tween little knolls of hard land densely grown with 
small trees and shrub, closely interwoven with 
thorned vines and briars. The pools are full of 
snakes, sickly colored lizards and snapping tur- 
tles. Great cobwebs hang on the shrub populated 
by frightful striped spiders. It is a most horrible 
place. The atmosphere sickly and ill smelling. 
Hiram positively feared and detested it, and would 
have gladly never entered it. But, it was quite 
a different matter with his cattle. To them it 
seemed to be a sort of charmed haven, an even- 
ing sanctuary into which they retired promptly 
every night at milking time, to ruminate and pos- 
sibly rend up worship to the Bovine God, and once 
in there nothing but the close proximity of Hiram's 
number ten boot, or the sound thwack of a bean 



1 86 Maine in Verse and Story 

pole on their backs would route them. It was 
bad enough after a hard day's work to take the 
long tramp to the pasture— say nothing about the 
swamp— But, to be obliged to butt into this 
infernal place— especially if it was raining, and 
every tree and bush letting down a barrel of wa- 
ter on his defenceless head— was worse, and it 
was this exasperating situation, and baffling prob- 
lem that was the one great bane in Hiram's oth- 
erwise happy and overcoming career. He had de- 
voted many sleepless nights studying it from every 
angle, and he could think of no device or scheme 
that would help him. He had heart to heart talks 
with the cattle, used many tubs of fat potato 
peelings, and savory turnip tops and green corn 
husks. These the cattle devoured greedily, but 
continued faithful to the swamp. He had tried 
various dogs. This worked well at first in some 
instances, and seemed fair to solve the problem. 
But sooner or later the cattle either bribed the 
canines, or the dogs got tired of the job and struck, 
and there he was worse off than ever. Hiram 
wanted to, and meant to be an exemplary church 
member. He attended regularly, and was very 
liberal in the matter of the contribution box. But, 
on several occasions when in pursuit of his cattle 
in the swamp he had been heard to use language 



Maine in Verse and Story 187 

that church members are not supposed to even 
think of. He had been taken to task about it. But, 
on the last occasion under particularly trying cir- 
cumstances he happened to be overheard by Dea- 
con Tucker, who was passing near by. The good 
man was terribly shocked, and on Saturday night 
up at the store at the corner, and before a lot of 
the neighbors, he took Hiram severely to task, 
and threatened to "church" him. Now, if he had 
talked to Hiram alone it would have been differ- 
ent, but as it was the worm turned, and it ended 
by Hiram telling the Deacon to go ahead and do 
his worst, and that he would keep away from the 
church anyway. The Deacon was then fearful 
that he had gone too far. He was also mindful 
of Hiram's being halter broke to the contribution 
box, and he sought then to placate him. He did 
this by trying to turn it off as a joke, and work 
in a little good natured banter for the edification 
of the crowd, and here is where he made his mis- 
take again. Hiram was only all the madder. At 
last the Deacon said, "Now look a here Hiram, 
why don't you just go to work and invent a ma- 
chine to fetch your critters home nights? You've 
got some kind of a patent doodad to do everything 
else, an' I b'lieve you can do this. Say, I'll tell 
you what I'll do, you go ahead and get up a 



1 8 8 Maine in Verse and Story 

m'sheen that '11 do it, an' I'll give you the pick 
o' my drove o' shoats." Now, this was no mean 
stump from the Deacon, for he had a state wide 
reputation as a producer of fine pork. He never 
missed the blue ribbons at the county fair, but it 
drew forth a roar of laughter and guffaws from 
the crowd, and Hiram took his mail and his pur- 
chases and angrily flung out of the store. Many 
a thing of that kind said in jest has proved to be 
a boomerang, and Hiram snapped his teeth shut 
and thought hard. A few days later he went over 
to a town where the railroad had recently been 
put in operation, it had constantly been a source 
of interest to Hiram, and he was down around the 
depot snooping around as usual to see what he 
could find that might be useful. For the first time 
he noticed the agent cross the tracks and pull over 
an iron lever adjusted on a small platform. In- 
stantly his curiosity was aroused. 

"What does that do?" He inquired. 

"That? Oh, that throws up the semaphore," 
replied the agent. 

"The semaphore. What might that be ?" Said 
the potato grower. 

"Why, the signal, to show that the track is 
clear at the station here." 

"Where is it?" said Hiram, looking up and all 



Maine in Verse and Story 189 

around. "I don't see any signal." 

"Oh, it's down the track there, 'bout half a 
mile," said the agent pointing to a white pole in 
the dim distance. 

"An' do you mean to say that you can work any 
signal way down there, from up here, by just 
pullin' on that 'ere crowbar?" said the astonished 
agriculturist. 

"Why, certainly, keep your eye on it." The 
agent manipulated the lever. 

"Wal, I'll be teetotally hornswoggled," said 
Hiram, as he saw the red arm of the semaphore 
fall and rise again. "Say, do you mind if I look 
this thing over a little?" 

"Not in the least," said the railroad man. "But 
look out for the train, it is coming soon." 

"Oh, I'll 'gree not to tech your train," said 
Hiram. 

First, he carefully looked over the mechanism 
of the platform and lever. Then he slowly fol- 
lowed the wire and its fixtures down to the sema- 
phore post, and this he examined critically and at 
leisure. When he came back there was a peculiar 
gleam in his eye. 

For the next few days there were sounds of un- 
usual activity in Hiram's work shop. Then he be- 
gan some extraordinary operations. Out by the 



190 Maine in Verse and Story 

barnyard bars he built a low rough platform about 
four feet square, and on this he adjusted an old 
mowing machine lever with its ratchet, after the 
style of the fixture at the railroad station, then 
from this he proceeded to run a line of old tele- 
graph wire through odd pulley wheels attached to 
the fence posts along the lane. When he reached 
the pasture he utilized half a dozen lone trees 
scattered conveniently across the pasture to the 
swamp. Next he carted a load or two of old lum- 
ber and scantlings to the edge of the swamp, and 
by degrees tugged it through to a knoll of hard 
land about in the center. Then he erected what 
appeared to be a half grown band stand. It was 
some ten feet high. On this he set up a stout 
pole as much higher. Around this he constructed 
a folding lattice work frame which when fully ex- 
tended would reach to the top of the pole, but 
when it was closed it would squat down close to the 
floor of the platform. The lattice frame he draped 
with a gown of black bunting, long enough to 
reach the whole height. He surmounted the 
whole with a head made of an old bushel basket 
covered with the same black bunting, and on it he 
painted a horrible Jack o lantern face, in red and 
white, with great terrifying eyes and huge grin- 
ning teeth. The whole figure when completed 



Maine in Verse and Story 191 

and raised to its full height presented a giant 
bogie, a horrible monster, fearful to see. With 
a fiendish sardonic half grin on his countenance 
he toiled, and with an astonishing lack of sound, 
While the innocent and trusting bovines grazed 
heartily on the luscious grasses near by the swamp, 
totally unconscious of the evil designs going on 
against them. But, this was not all, Satan must 
have been close to his elbow. He adjusted two 
finger-like pieces of rubber so that they would when 
the figure rose, draw along a stout well-resined 
cord attached to an old wash boiler at the bottom, 
which would cause the most unearthly groans and 
strains to vibrate from it. Still more he affixed 
long outstanding arms to the effigy. These were 
of withy hickory so they would wave up and down, 
and on these he hung old tea kettles and stew pans 
so they would jangle against old dippers and coffee 
pots, when the figure should be jerked suddenly 
upward. 

A more fiendish diabolical contrivance never was 
conceived of. It is a wonder that Satan did not 
pre-empt Hiram's services then and there. At 
last the thing was completed to his satisfaction. 
Levers and wires all working perfectly, and con- 
nected with the main wire from the barnyard. 
Then the great inventor gathered up his tools and 



192 Maine in Verse and Story 

just as quietly departed the dismal solitude settling 
once more over the fastness of the swamp like a 
funeral pall. 

The next day was the longest that Hiram had 
ever lived. The hours dragged by like so many 
days. He endured the crawling time with all the 
impatience and eagerness of a boy for circus day. 
His excitement increased as nightfall drew near. 
True to their purpose and their part in it, the cat- 
tle promptly entered the sacred precincts of the 
swamp at the usual hour. 

At last the great moment arrived, and with rap- 
idly beating heart Hiram approached the platform 
of the lever. He fully realized that the most im- 
portant moment of his inventive career was at 
hand. That meant either his crowning triumph 
in a blaze of satisfaction and glory, or a most dis- 
mal failure. Either emancipation from the ter- 
rors of the swamp, and the weary tramp to and 
fro, or the doom of it for all time thereafter. He 
trembled in the tensity of the situation. He cast 
swift furtive glances about him and the premises, 
then he forced his hand to reach forth and grasp 
the lever. He hesitated, then he drew in a long 
breath, shut his eyes and gave it a long pull clear 
over. A huge sigh like a steam exhaust gave vent 
to the pent up excitement within him. He bravely 



Maine in Verse and Story 193 

took a firmer grasp and pulled the lever over 
again. The die was cast. Now Hiram would 
have given much to have that moment been at the 
swamp end of his invention. But the devil is said 
to be good to his own. Be that as it may, it 
proved that fate had so willed it that he was to be 
favored with a graphic account of just what took 
place there, and from a source that would please 
him most next to a personal witnessing. It so 
happened that Deacon Tucker and a delegation 
of the neighbors had been to a distant wood lot to 
appraise the standing timber. They were late, and 
took the hazard of short cutting across Hiram's 
pasture. They were passing along the ridge bor- 
dering the swamp. They were in close single file, 
the Deacon ahead. They were silent, watchful 
and suspicious. It was a beautiful nightfall. The 
sun sinking down behind the distant wooded hills 
in a blaze of golden glory. 

The birds were in the tree tops with uplifted 
heads warbling forth their evening songs of praise. 
There was a sanctified calm resting over the 
swamp, and a devout hush prevailed elsewhere 
about the pasture. Truly it was the time and the 
responsive occasion for pious thought and reflec- 
tion, and the Deacon's mind was in keeping with 
the solemnity of it all. Suddenly there burst upon 



194 Maine in Verse and Story 

them a rude shock. As one man they halted, as if 
suddenly froze in their tracks and stared at the 
swamp. The cause of this was a most unearthly 
wail, screech and long drawn howl, blended to- 
gether. Then came a clang as might be a chiv- 
araree in Hades, or pandemonium breaking loose 
altogether. Then to the terrified Deacon and his 
followers there appeared rising up over the tree 
tops the great black figure of Old Nick himself. 
His giant body swaying. His green and white 
eyes leering horribly. His awful red mouth grin- 
ning, while his long arms waved up and down as 
if beckoning ominously. It was a fearful spec- 
tacle. They would have died in their tracks if 
something else had not then diverted their atten- 
tion. This was a sudden wild thrashing of brush. 
A mighty soughing and thudding of muck, and 
splashing of water in the swamp jungle. It thun- 
dered nearer the tops of the small trees violently 
swaying showed that whatever it was it was com- 
ing in their direction. Their knees were sagging 
and they had given up all hope in the belief that 
Old Nick and his hosts were surely coming for 
them. When as if shot from a catapult, out of 
the fringing bushes of the swamp came a score of 
cattle of assorted sizes, spattered and streaming 
with water, and great clots of black muck cover- 



Maine in Verse and Story 195 

ing their sides and faces. Frantically they strug- 
gled up the side of the ridge. On finally reaching 
its summit they wheeled as one and glared back 
at the swamp, staring at it with bulging eyes, 
puffing and snorting. Nothing at that moment 
was in sight, and barring the heavy labor of their 
breaths, all was silent. 

But, an instant later again belched forth the 
diabolical howls. Again the accompaniment of the 
tinware, and once more appeared the figure of the 
chief engineer of Hades. The cattle waited for 
no more. With heads down and tails in the air, 
roaring and bellowing in an agony of terror, they 
stampeded for the safest haven they knew of — 
Hiram's barnyard. The neighbors, in the matter 
of leaving the place followed the example of the 
cattle, while the Deacon retired behind a stump to 
pray, too scared to run. About where the con- 
nection of the Deacon's party was broken, Hiram 
himself was able to take it up. He first descried 
a mighty disturbance and swaying of the brush 
and low trees on the distant pasture side as if a 
small cyclone was cavorting across there. Then he 
made out what appeared to be a cavalry charge 
advancing rapidly toward the head of the lane. 
Clouds of dust, and clods of turf, leaves and small 
sticks filled the air above it, and soon the thunder 



196 Maine in Verse and Story 

and pounding of hoof falls became audible. With 
a soughing and puffing like a string of freight loco- 
motives working up grade, the fastest runner was 
in the lead, and they strung out accordingly. But 
the bunch was well together at that. Hiram had 
mounted the wall and hat in hand stood shouting 
them on, his watch in his hand. It was exactly 
2.08 *4, from the second pull of the lever until 
the first bovine leaped the barnyard bars. Hiram 
considered this fair time for the first heat. 

About eight o'clock that evening the great in- 
ventor was sitting out on his front porch, the la- 
bors of the day completed. He sat tipped back in 
his favorite chair against the wall of the house. 
There was a set smile of self-contentment on his 
face, and of a truth he was at peace so far as he 
knew with all the world. It was while sitting thus 
that he was much surprised to see a large posse of 
his neighbors silently filing into his dooryard. They 
halted at a respectful distance. But one of them 
who proved to be Deacon Tucker advanced a few 
paces nearer. Hiram bid him good evening, and 
then asked them collectively to come in. They de- 
clined this by ignoring the invitation. The Dea- 
con acted as spokesman, by asking Hiram if he 
had been up in the vicinity of his pasture swamp 
lately. 



Maine in Verse and Story 197 

"Why, Eh— Yes, I was up there today. Why, 
what's the matter up there?" said Hiram. 

Then the Deacon proceeded to forcively nar- 
rate the remarkable experience himself and his 
fellows had encountered there that evening, leav- 
ing out no detail of its effect on either themselves 
or the cattle. 

With desperate effort Hiram made out to hold 
in and listen until the Deacon had got through. But 
the moment he had finished he simply slipped off 
his chair onto the floor. There he rolled and 
writhed and slapped his sides for full two minutes, 
uttering sounds that were really laughter, but 
sounding more like the howls of some one in mor- 
tal distress, and all this to the extreme indignation 
of the Deacon and his body guard. 

When Hiram had finally given vent to the first 
eruption of his feelings and had regained sufficient 
composure to sit up, he wailed out: "An' so you 
thought that was the old Boy comin' after you did 
you? Oh, no Deacon that wa'n't it, not yet, that 
was only just the first tryout o' that ere patent cat- 
tle fetcher you stumped me to invent, an' I guess 
by your tell here you ain' got any doubt but what 
it worked have you?" 

Here Hiram had another spasm worst than the 
first 



198 Maine in Verse and Story 

The Deacon, had uttered no word. He stood 
for the while speechless, then he wheeled, and by 
common impulse he and his followers left the 
dooryard. They had got a few rods down the 
street when Hiram yelled after them. 

"Here ! Hold on a minit Deacon. M 

They all stopped. 

"What about that shote? Most o' them fellers 
were an ear witness to that transaction, you know." 

"Oh, you can come up an' get him," snarled 
the Deacon, and Hiram certainly did. He never 
had to go after the cattle again. Any time of day 
that he wanted them, and no matter what part of 
the pasture they might happen to be in, all he had 
to do was to pull the lever. 

The cattle did the rest. 



Maine in Verse and Story 199 



THE FULL SUMMER TIME 

When Nature heaps the measure, 
Of the sunny hours of pleasure, 
And everything is voicing 
In a grand sweet rhyme. 
When the dreamy hazes shimmer 
On the ridges growing dimmer, 
And the faithful are rejoicing, 
In the full summer time. 

When the green is glowing fairest, 
And the forest shade is rarest, 
And the waters all are brimming 
In their charms sublime, 
When the flowers are the sweetest, 
And the swallows are the fleetest, 
O'er the grassy billows skimming, 
In the full summer time. 



200 Maine in Verse and Story 



THE SOOTHSAY OF THE WILD 

Go out, afar, to the living hills, 

At the break of a June bred dawn, 
There are potions there for a heart's dull ills, 

And a balm for the sigh and yawn. 
They are brewed by a master healer's craft, 

And a Master hand will lay, 
And the drone will waft, and the ills go aft, 

And the heart weight lift away. 

Go out, afar, to the pine fringed stream, 

When the sun first slants the steep, 
There are wondrous tints that glint and gleam 

As the trout in crescents leap, 
There are wood folk there that are good to know, 

And the cheer they'll hail to you 
Makes pale cheeks glow, and red blood flow, 

And the heart once more beat true. 

Go out, afar, to the lake's pearl glow, 

In the morning's mirrored calm, 
When the hill domes show as deep below 

And the isles reflect their charm, 
There are paintings there by a master brush 

And the sculpt of a master steel, 
And emotions rush in the sacred hush, 

That soothe, uplift and heal. 



Maine in Verse and Story 201 



HE THAT HATH EYES, LET HIM SEE 

My Brother, do not grieve your lot, 

In this bright world of ours, 
But, go out, where, in the sun and air 

You can see the green and flowers, 
From tree and sky, and bloom e'er by 

No eye shall find a bar, 
And the walk of a mile, in a charm filled while 

Is better than coach or car. 

My Brother, do not crave of gold, 

Earth's greater joys are free, 
Your eyes have wings, as swift as king's 

As great delights can see, 
So take a stroll, and light your soul, 

Its windows opened wide, 
And seemed hard plight, will shine out bright 

In ways unthought, untried, 



202 Maine in Verse and Story 



THE PARADOX OF LIFE 

There's a paradox, born of life's inning, 

Man blindly sets out on its path, 
And, ever, from first step's beginning, 

There lurks a grim wraith with his snath, 
And the years may be long of his missing, 

Or the mower may reap at first breath, 
So from moment of Mother's first kissing, 

Is man under sentence of death. 

Were this of a Judge's imposing, 

Then would he set the day and the date, 
But life knows not here, of its closing, 

It hangs on the fancy of fate, 
"In a twinkling— the Son of man cometh," 

The scriptural verdict, so saith, 
So, thus, from the start as it summeth, 

Life, is a sentence of death. 

But, as death is the crown of Paul's story, 

As the "grain quickens not, lest it die, 
Sown dishonored, is raised up in glory, 

First of earth, then of image on high," 
Then, is life, as of grain that God soweth, 

And to die, is the goal of the strife, 
Then, 'tis here, that the paradox showeth, 

Death, is a sentence of life. 



Maine in Verse and Story 



THE PATRONS OF HUSBANDRY 

"As ye soweth, so also shall ye reap." 

Oh, she can boast, of a mighty host, 

The tillers of her soil, 
And all engage at a royal wage 

For honest, faithful toil, 
But he who'll shirk the good dame's work 

Or steal his time away 
Will meet his sin in a lacking bin 

When he comes to reap his pay. 

She sets no eye to watch or pry, 

Each worker has his will, 
To plow or sow and speed the hoe, 

Or ramble dale and hill, 
But every hour of sun and shower 

He pilfers by the way 
Is a sheaf of grain the less to gain 

When he comes to reap his pay. 

It's only seeds of useless weeds 

That grow themselves and fare, 
The fruits that fill the board and till, 

Need constant guard and care. 
So thus their dues her subjects choose, 

What store on harvest day, 
The nub of shift or the prize of thrift, 

When he comes to reap his pay. 



204 Maine in Verse and Story 



THE BROTHERHOOD OF MAN 

There is a mighty power, brother, 

In a firm-grasped hand, 
When it's given to another, 

Breasting life's rough strand. 
It oft' may mean reviving 

Of a hope-lost soul, 
A new and better striving 

And a gained high goal. 

The investment's but a trifle, 

But the dividends are great, 
In the heart aches it may stifle, 

The resolves it may create. 
So, a handshake sometimes given 

May mean much more than we think, 
Where a manhood may be riven 

It may weld the broken link. 

Of great orders, there are many 

Of fraternity and clan, 
But the grandest band of any 

Is the Brotherhood of Man. 
Lift Humanity,— Its mission; 

Its field is all creation's land; 
And the grip of recogniton 

Is a firm-grasped hand. 



♦Written for the celebrated "Page Class for Men" of the 
Dudley St. Baptist Church, Boston, Mass. 



Maine in Verse and Story 205 



OCTOBER 

Now, the ripe October days, 
The parting of the verdant ways, 

To scenes of painted glory. 
And blending with the ruddy leaves, 
The golden fields, where bending sheaves, 

Fulfilled the Summer's story. 

The bee, yet wings a shortened round, 
Where late the golden rod is found, 

The frost has missed in falling, 
And now and then across the sky, 
A lone bird flits with pleading cry, 

His migrate fellows calling. 

At sunrise, from the splendid hills, 
A magic breath invites, instills, 

A charm to nature's lovers, 
To come and drink the soulful mood, 
That Autumn spells within the wood, 

Ere Winter's mantle covers. 



2o6 Maine in Verse and Story 



THE AVIATION OF CUPID 

IT was just after the main rush of the sup- 
per hour. The assembly in the brilliant lob- 
by of the Touraine were gathered in small 
groups, animatedly talking. One exception 
might have been noted. Alone and just outside 
the main swirl, a young man stood quietly enjoy- 
ing the scene. 

He was about twenty-eight years of age. A 
striking figure of prime young manhood. He was 
six feet tall, great limbed and shouldered, of 
smooth clean cut face, and in the flash of his clear 
blue eyes there was the keen relish of active young 
life, and self-satisfaction due to his age. He might 
have been the least important person in the great 
gathering, yet, it was his name that was on every 
tongue. It had been cried out wildly all the even- 
ing by the newsboys on the streets, and it was his 
face, life size, that adorned the front pages of the 
papers, one of which he held in his hand. He was 
Jack Oxley, the sun burst aviator, hero and win- 
ner of cross continental flight and other lesser 
events, and he had that day thrilled the multitudes 
on the field at Squantum. It had been the last 
day of the first great meet, when aviation had come 



Maine in Verse and Story 207 

upon the world in its first great burst of triumph. 
Oxley was no seeker of demonstrative notoriety. 
Aviation he took as a matter of every day course. 
To him man flight was simply one more triumph 
of the all conquering human mind over seemingly 
impossible problems. He considered it won by no 
one man, but by equal credit to all, living, or gone 
to pay the fearful toll. 

It was to his biplane that as regards his own 
achievements, he gave the most credit. It was 
of his own construction, the main ideas were bor- 
rowed of course, but, certain added features of his 
own were, he believed, responsible for the great 
work he had been able to perform. He had regis- 
tered quietly, only that evening at the Touraine, 
and he was thoroughly enjoying his fancied incog- 
nito, in the hope of a quiet evening in his own 
way, therefore he was a little surprised when a 
bell boy stepped up to him and said with all as- 
surance, "A message for you, sir." He thought it 
must be a mistake, but he took from the hand of 
the page an envelope of smartest quality linen pa- 
per, and on it read, "Mr. Oxley." A little an- 
noyed he tore it open, and on the scented missive 
within he read: 

u Will Mr. Oxley please come at once to the 



2o8 Maine in Verse and Story 

residence of Jonas Q. Walson in Brookline. Very 
urgent. Mr. Walson's car in waiting. 

"Mrs. Hudson Van Rensaeller." 

He stood for a moment staring at the note in 
deepest wonderment. The lady he had never heard 
of. But Jonas Q. Walson' s name was known on 
four continents, and it never appeared in print in 
less than inch type. Now, what could he want 
with him? That was so urgent, too. It puzzled 
him. He had never met Walson, evidently it was 
not to attend a pink tea, or a reception. Anything 
connected with Walson's name meant action, and 
lots of it. The thing savored of adventure, — 
which Oxl ey rather liked,— and it was past theatre 
hours, and there was nothing special on his hands, 
he resolved to see it out. He hurried to his room 
and made ready. As he emerged from the revolv- 
ing doors a footman in the livery of the very 
well to do, approached him and said, "Mr. Ox- 
ley!" 

He bowed acknowledgment and was ushered 
into the boudoir-like interior of a splendid limou- 
sine motor car. A few minutes later he stepped 
out in the port cochere of a palatial residence. A 
richly attired butler met him, ushered him into 
a grand reception hall, and assisted him to lay aside 



Maine in Verse and Story 209 

his things, and a moment later announced him at 
the portal of a magnificent drawing room. 

Two ladies sitting there rose at his appearance. 
They smiled and expressed their greeting. The 
elder of the two was tall and queenly of bearing 
and stature, and might have been a grand dutch- 
ess in the European court. The other was the 
most strikingly beautiful girl he had ever seen, of 
medium height, her arms and supple form full 
round as an apple. She stood in perfect poise. 
Her perfectly modeled shoulders and neck sup- 
ported the head of a Greek Goddess, crowned 
with a wealth of shimmering brown hair. But, her 
most striking charm was her glorious wonderful 
eyes, that looked straight at him. Eyes as large 
as those of a startled fawn, and brilliantly brown. 
They spoke of self-possession, frankness. The 
highest order of training, determination of pur- 
pose, animation and surplus energy fairly radiated 
from her. She was a splendid girl, such as he had 
dreamed of in his ideal of a perfect young woman, 
and in his admiration of her he completely for- 
got for the moment the curiosity and perplexity 
at his strange summons. He saw at once that both 
ladies were under tense agitation. There was 
smothered distress in the smile and manner of wel- 
come the girl directed toward him. Her shapely 



210 Maine in Verse and Story 

hand clasped and unclasped nervously around a 
slip of yellow paper that appeared to be a tele- 
gram. Her white even teeth bit fitfully over her 
ripe under lip. 

The elder woman was the first to speak. "Mr. 
Oxley," she said, "I hardly know what to say in 
apology for thus intruding upon you, but we are 
in great distress. I am Mrs. Van Rensaeller. 
This is my niece, Miss Vera Walson, my broth- 
er's—Mr. Walson's daughter. He is— We,— 
she paused, seemingly unable to continue, casting 
an appealing glance at her niece. 

"I assure you ladies, I am at your service. Any- 
thing that I can do I will be glad to know of," 
said Oxley. Still he stared blankly at them, 
battling with his puzzled thoughts. What 
had all this to do with him? How was it possible 
that he could assist them? He turned his eyes 
toward the young woman questioningly. 

"Oh, Mr. Oxley/' the girl said. "We are, as 
my aunt says, in great distress. My father — but, 
first, perhaps I had better ask you to kindly read 
this." She handed him the telegram. He took it 
and read: 
"Camp Vera, Chesuncook Lake, Maine, 

September 15th, 1909. 

Mrs. Hudson Van Rensaeller. The Chestnuts, 



Maine in Verse and Story 211 

Brookline, Mass. Send Vera with the cordial by 
special train at once. 

Jonas Q. Walson." 

Still he was in the dark. What had all this to 
do with him? He saw that they were really in 
great distress, and that it was a serious situation, 
but, why, surrounded as they were with all means, 
and provided with efficient servants, had they sent 
for him ? Again he looked at them questioningly. 

"Oh, Mr. Oxley," she cried. "Can't you- 
dont' you see? My father is very dangerously 
ill at our camp on Chesuncook Lake, Maine. He 
has had these attacks before. They are very seri- 
ous. Nothing but this will relieve him." She 
held up a small phial. "The doctor told him nev- 
er to be without it. Either he thought he had 
some at the camp, or he forgot to take some with 
him. But it is two years since he has had an at- 
tack before, and I suppose he had almost forgot- 
ten about them. Now he must have this relief, 
in a very short time, or it will be too late. That 
is why we have sent for you. You are the only 
one on earth that can save my father's life. Oh 
you will fly to him with me tonight, won't you?" 

Oxley was completely bowled off his feet. Too 
dumbfounded for the moment to speak. The mon- 



212 Maine in Verse and Story 

strosity of her proposal staggered him, and, shade 
of Elijah, she had asked it as easily as if it had 
been to row her across the Charles in a boat. Maine 
he knew of only as a vast wilderness. A tangle 
of forest, lake and stream. The last place in the 
world to think of flying into, even in daylight, and 
alone. But it was all clear enough now. But such 
a solution had not even entered his mind. She 
stood drawn up at full height. Flushed, looking 
straight at him with trusting, pleading suffering 
eyes. His heart stabbed and bled for her. "Fly 
with her." Gad, he would have flown with her 
to the moon, and it seemed no more extravagant 
than what she had asked, but she could not know. 
In her great extremity she had grasped at what 
looked to her as an open possibility to most speed- 
ily relieve her father. 

And what a faith she had in him, and how he 
hated to shatter it. All the triumphs of the past 
melted to insignificance now beside the glory this 
would be, could he accomplish this task she had 
asked of him. But he meant to stand by her and 
help her in some way. 

"Miss Walson," he said. "Believe me I am 
deeply sorry for you. Anything in my power is at 
your command. But— of course— you do not un- 
derstand. This is not the right way. What you 



Maine in Verse and Story 213 

ask is impossible. Flying by night has not been 
attempted yet, only under the most restricted con- 
ditions. Certainly it should not be undertaken 
into a place like Maine, and with a young lady 
passenger. It would be a crime on my part to 
think of such a thing. What we must do is to 
arrange for the special train at once, as your fath- 
er says. 

"Mr. Oxley," she broke in. "I thank you. I 
knew you would help me, and I know all that you 
have said is true, but you too do not understand the 
real situation. Let me make it clearer." She un- 
rolled a map of Maine on the table. She mo- 
tioned him to stop beside her. He did so and 
stood trembling in the electric radiance of her 
close warm presence. "There she said," point- 
ing with a pencil to a small speck far up on the 
map, where the lakes and rivers look line a riot 
of blotches and scratches of ink, that is Kineo, the 
end of the railroad. It is three hundred miles 
from here, over two divisions. It will take an 
hour at least to get a special and get under way, 
and if we could maintain a speed of fifty miles 
an hour it would take six hours to reach Kineo. 
But, that is only the easiest part of the journey. 
From Kineo you must travel twenty miles up the 
lake in a boat to northeast carry. The best 



214 Maine in Verse and Story 

the boat can do is fifteen miles an hour. Now 
you must get over the carry, a rough tote road, 
by foot, or team. It takes an hour. Then 
you must paddle down the Penobscot, here in a 
canoe, to the head of Chesuncook, — there, it is 
twenty miles. There are rips and falls to carry 
around. Then, it is still five miles down the lake 
to the camp, five hours would be good 
time getting from Kineo to the camp, a 
total of twelve hours. And that is with 
everything favorable. But that would not 
happen, I know. I have been over the route so 
many times. Everything happens. There will be 
stops on the railroad. Changing engines. Some- 
thing breaks down. Fifteen hours would be near- 
er the real time it would take, and that would be 
doing well. That is too long. But with your bi- 
plane we can do it in six hours. If we get away 
at midnight we would be there at six in the morn- 
ing. I estimate it at about three hundred miles 
as we should go. That would be sixty miles an 
hour. Your plane has made seventy. Your rec- 
ord for continuous flight is four hundred and 
twenty miles alone, and three hundred and sixty 
with a passenger. Your duration record is seven 
hours." 

She recited this in breathless rapidity. It was 



Maine in Verse and Story 215 

an astonishing calculation, worthy of a railroad ex- 
pert, and, gad, how pat she had his records, and 
how proudly she had enumerated them. Admira- 
tion and pride were in her words and her eyes. 
Now he had closely followed her, noting every de- 
tail, as she had traced and explained on the map. 
But aside from this he swiftly noted the compara- 
tively clean cut New England coast line from Bos- 
ton up to the great river that has its start from 
Moosehead Lake, and the trend of the 
lake almost up to the river that runs into 
Chesuncook, and a great resolve, a great hope had 
welled within him. He believed he saw his way 
to help her and get this aid to her father. It 
was a wonderfully clear night, with the moon at its 
full. Its great light on the ocean would make it 
easy at the altitude he would travel to follow the 
coast line up to the Kennebec, by calculation of the 
distances given to the big coast cities of Ports- 
mouth and Portland, and the speed of his plane 
he would know when he had reached those cities 
which would be easily marked by their lights. The 
Kennebec would be the first big river beyond Port- 
land. Once on that it would be easy to follow it 
up to the lake. By that time it should be daylight, 
and the rest just as easy. On Chesuncook it would 
be easy to distinguish the far out reaching point 



2 1 6 Maine in Verse and Story 

on the eastern side, on which the camp was situ- 
ated. All this he had figured out in a flash. 
Hope ran high. His heart swelled into his throat. 
He would take the chance. It might be insane, 
wild in conception. He might fail, and then he 
might win. These thoughts flashed through his 
mind like a cyclone. 

Both ladies were still standing. Miss Walson 
looking straight into his eyes. Her own, soft, 
appealing, and there was a suggestion of chal- 
lenge. 

"Miss Walson," he said. "I believe I can help 
you. I believe I can get this medicine to him 
about the time you say. I shall certainly try to, 
and will get away at once. Give me a portion of 
it in another phial. But you must take the rest 
and go on the special train in case I fail to get 
there." 

Never would he forget what she expressed in 
those eyes of a thousand tongues. 

"Mr. Oxley," she said, with the mist now in her 
eyes. "I knew you would help me. I knew — 
But,— Don't you see that I must go with you? 
You could never find the way, no one could—" 

He told her, then, how he had figured it all out, 
and what he had decided to do. 

"Oh, that is splendid," she cried. "Splendid, it 



Maine in Verse and Story 217 

is about the way that I should go. But, you have 
no idea the tangle it is. So many straits and arms 
of the sea, and so many rivers that you might mis- 
take for the one you would want. It is a perfect 
maze. No one could ever get there who is not 
familiar with every mile of the country. But, it is 
splendid, glorious of you to attempt it. But it can- 
not be. I must go with you. I can get through. 
I will know everything and cannot be misled be- 
sides— 

"My dear young lady," he said. u You have no 
idea what you would attempt. Finding the way 
is the very least of it. But you have no idea of 
what such a ride in a plane would be. Every 
moment is one of utmost uncertainty. Every sec- 
ond is a separate chance. A thousand things may 
happen. You may have to come to earth at any 
moment, and you must land wherever it happens. 
Perhaps on the sea, or in the trees of a forest, 
where if you reached the ground alive and unin- 
jured, you would be far from human habitation 
or aid, and there would be great hardship and 
privation. You might escape injury, and I might 
—not. Leaving you alone in such a situation, what 
would I answer to your father? To the world? 
But granted that everything went right and we 
should make it. Have you any sort of an idea 



2 1 8 Maine in Verse and Story 

what such a trip is like. Just imagine yourself 
hanging on the seat of a swing, a thousand feet 
up there. That is all that it is. The seat of a 
swing, on the filmy structure of the plane, buf- 
feted like the feather it is on the four winds of 
Heaven. And on this shadow of a thing you must 
sit for six or more hours in a narrow cramped po- 
sition. And that is not the all. The air up there 
is very cold, probably below freezing tonight, and 
the great speed of the plane will drive you against 
it as if you was facing a blizzard sending the chill 
to the bone. It is a terrible experience. You see 
now how impossible it is. But, I am used to it. 
It is my game. No, Miss Walson, we are losing 
precious moments. Order the car, please, and let 
me be off. Give me the map and I will study it 
more and it will guide me." 

He had rapidly drawn this picture to show them 
the danger and the rashness of Miss Walson's 
proposition to go. Mrs. Van Rensaeller had as 
yet said nothing. She spoke low, calm and col- 
lected. 

"Mr. Oxley," she said. "You do not know the 
Walsons. They are like yourself, people who do 
the impossible things. My brother would be dis- 
appointed in Vera if she did not accompany you. 
If you are to undertake this great thing for us she 



Maine in Verse and Story 219 

will share its hazards with you. And she is right. 
You could not in a thousand chances make this trip 
without a competent guide, familiar with every 
mile of the way. I am her aunt. All the mother 
she has had for ten years. I therefore speak in 
authority. I sanction it, and assume the responsi- 
bility. But, I have all faith in you and your won- 
derful biplane. We have read all about you and 
your achievements. We have seen you— every 
day — at the field." 

At this moment she excused herself from the 
room, and they two were left alone. Oxley stand- 
ing shaking. His thoughts mounting him to the 
seventh heaven. He glanced at the girl. Her su- 
perb eyes met his own squarely, smiling, unflinch- 
ing, determined. 

"My aunt is right," she said. "I must go with 
you. You are willing to undergo all that you 
have said for my — sake, and for my father. I 
have no right to ask such a thing of you, and if 
you go I must share its dangers with you. It is 
my duty to guide you and save you from addi- 
tional peril. And," she smiled, "I may not be 
the tenderfoot you think I am. I have spent many 
months in the Maine woods. I am as familiar 
with their conditions as any guide. I have 
tramped many miles in moccasins and on snow 



220 Maine in Verse and Story 

shoes with my father, living on hard tack, trout 
and wild game that we cooked on a cone fire. I 
have slept many nights in a bough lean-to with 
balsam boughs for a couch. Sometimes in the 
snow, and it was the time of my life, too." 

She stood. Her face flushed, her eyes fired at 
the glorious reminiscence. She was Jonas Q. Wal- 
son's daughter. But that promotor would have 
given liberally of his millions if she had been a 
son, or if he had one like her. 

She was magnificent. He was satisfied now that 
she was indeed not a "Baby," but his own equal 
in grit or ability to stand rough out of doors. Be- 
sides he knew that she was keen, enduring and 
cool, and not a whit the less deliciously, sweetly 
feminine. It was only his great fear of hardship 
and danger to her that hesitated him. And still, 
above it all persistently loomed up the great 
thought— The dazzling hope. What if he took 
her— and— made good? He realized that it is in 
passing through such a comradeship as this was 
likely to be, that tries out human metal and binds 
human souls in the never ending bonds of un- 
phrased, unwritten fraternity. Would this bind 
theirs? He knew he should lose that advantage 
of charm if he refused to take her. Was this his 
opportunity?— Heaven given— that "knocks but 



Maine in Verse and Story 221 

once?" It was an amazing situation suddenly 
thrust upon him. He flashed a glance at her. She 
laughed. A sweet tinkle of a laugh that held him 
to her eyes, that plead, demanded, admired, en- 
chanted, a thousand things, but greatest of all 
promised, of undying gratitude and eternal friend- 
ship— And dared he hope— More? She held 
out her hand. He took it hungrily, almost sav- 
agely. Her fingers tightened about his own, send- 
ing a tornado of ecstatic thrills through him. 
"You will take me? Please. I refuse to let you 
go alone." 

"Yes," he said, blindly. "I will go. With 
you as captain and guide, and we will win out, for 
the God that shapes all destinies will not reward 
such valor as yours any other way." 

"How about your own?" She flashed back at 
him. 

He flushed, but instantly now he became a 
changed man. He was the aviator now with the 
task of his lifetime before him. "Order the special 
at once," he said, "And send a trusted servant with 
a portion of the medicine in case— we fail." 

Mrs. Van Rensaeller had returned just in time 
to hear this. She smiled. 

"The special," she said, "Has just gone. We 
had ordered it at once at the same time we sent 



222 Maine in Verse and Story 

for you, in case you could not go. I have just 
told Briggs, our man, to start. The train is on its 
way." 

Oxley bowed and smiled. "Where is your 
phone ?" he asked. 

Mrs. Van Rensaeller led him to it. He called 
his mechanician on the field at Squantum, and gave 
his orders. Happily his plane was in the pink of 
condition. Then he returned to Miss Walson. 
"Dress yourself warmly," he said. Wear long 
overboots, or hunting boots if you have them. 
Take a long close fitting fur coat and a hood, and 
one of your aunt's waterproof auto coats with a 
hood to wear over all. Better pack a small hamp- 
er, we may need it." 

Half an hour later they whirled over the lonely 
marsh-bound Sqantum turnpike. They did not talk 
much. He was too dazed. He wanted to just 
think. Think. 

"Seen him every day at the field," had she? 

So had scores of other society girls. Some had 
fawned on him showers of maudlin hero worship 
and applause. They had sought to fly with him, 
too, in public, for the notoriety. How he rejoiced 
that she had not. They swung across into the 
deserted aviation field and stopped before the 
looming white hangar. Lights were glimmering 



Maine in Verse and Story 223 

around a huge bird-like creature with monstrous 
wings outspread like some giant fabled roc of old, 
crouching, ready to leap into the heavens. She 
dismissed the chauffeur, and Oxley led her to a 
seat in the doorway of the hangar. 

For half an hour then, he worked rapidly with 
his mechanician and assistants, "tuning up." Again 
and again he went over critical parts, and tried 
out the engine. He saw that his double supply of 
oil and water was all right. He saw that the 
hamper and a rifle were firmly tied on. His fair 
shipmate sat mutely interested in his every move- 
ment. At last he was satisfied. 

"We will go now," he said to her. He assist- 
ed her to put on her fur coat and hood and the 
rubber cloak over it. Then he adjusted the avia- 
tion mask and goggles over her sweet face, — he 
hated to hide it now that it was so near,— and 
last, the cloak hood over her head. Unhesitat- 
ing then the brave girl climbed up into the plane 
and took her half-reclining position on the narrow 
seat with its equally narrow back. Securely he 
wrapped her feet in the long folds of the auto 
cloak. Then he donned his own coats and mask, 
said a hurried word or two to his man, shot anoth- 
er anxious glance or two over the plane and 
climbed up beside her at the wheel and levers. 



224 Maine in Verse and Story 

The engine blurted into a whirring roar. "Let 
her go," he shouted. The plane at its release 
started along the turf. Faster, faster, then it lift- 
ed. It was twelve o'clock to the minute when, 
with a graceful swinging sweep they shot outward 
and upward over the bay, and the strangest voy- 
age ever entered upon by two young people was 
begun. It was crispy chill, the moon nearly over- 
head. To the brave girl it was all a strange, 
wild new sensation. The earth in the weird moon- 
light seemed to rapidly sink away beneath them, 
causing her heart to leap into her mouth. But this 
quickly wore away. The rush of the air and the 
roar of the engine was harder to get used to. 
Lights twinkled on the stray craft moored about 
the bay and harbor. To the left of them spread 
the great jumble of Boston lights. 

Farther and farther the different objects of earth 
sank beneath them until now the coast stretched 
out below them, visible plainly far ahead. Acutely 
defined against the silver gleam of the moon-lit 
sea. It was a wonderful sight now. It held the 
young woman spellbound. In a surprising short 
space of time to her, Lynn lights twinkled be- 
neath them. As quickly followed Salem, with the 
glow of Marblehead showing to the right. A lit- 
tle further ahead, at Beverly, the coast turned 



Maine in Verse and Story 225 

sharply to the right, and a glow far down in the 
distance she said would be Gloucester, but direct- 
ed that they keep on to the left across the dark 
land toward another far distant glow that she said 
was Newburyport, thus cutting off the great point 
of Cape Ann. The rush of the air now seemed 
to deaden the roar of the engine, making it pos- 
sible for some conversation. Yet she had to lean 
near to him and speak quite loud. In spite of the 
rush of the air Oxley fancied that he could feel 
the warmth of her close companionship. She was 
getting a little used to the plane now, and begin- 
ning to fully experience the strange situation. It 
fascinated her. She had not the least fear or dis- 
trust. "Oh, I could enjoy this," she cried, "Were 
it under different circumstances. This is wonder- 
ful. Glorious. Something worth while. Anyone 
can follow a fail, or a well built road, but it takes 
brain, and nerve to accomplish this. Oxley thrilled 
at the ring of pride in her words. And she had 
said, that he alone, of all the world's millions, was 
the only one that could help her. 

How he gloried in that. 

The world, with its twentieth century limited 
trains and fast modern gasoline and electric mo- 
tors, they needed, as she had said, true rails, 
smooth road beds, strong bridges and tunnels to 



226 Maine in Verse and Story 

cross the gulleys of valleys, and penetrate the ant 
hills of mountains. Bah. He needed none of 
these. That was child's play. He looked down 
on these things now in contempt. His roadway 
was the free eternal runway of the heavens. He 
could shape his course to any point of the com- 
pass and go, go, go, with naught of river, lake or 
mountain to bar his way. What a glorious boast 
and pride. His pathway was not without its 
dangers, and greater dangers, too. He knew that, 
but he was glad that he had braved it all for this. 

They were soon passing Newburyport, and the 
great marshes of Atlantic and the Hamptons lay 
in a dark blur ahead. Only an occasional dot of 
light now denoted the midnight oil burning in 
some home. But, far ahead, a halo of light be- 
gan to loom up. This his fair plane mate said 
would be Portsmouth. The plane was flying beau- 
tifully, well shook out now and settled for its long 
flight. His acute ear noted every sound and vi- 
bration that told how perfectly every part was do- 
ing its work. More important and needful to him 
tonight than at any time in his aerial career. 

"I am glad you are not finding the sensation of 
flight unpleasant," he said. "And let us look for 
the best. I have a hope— a feeling that you will 
find your father not as bad as you fear. He may 



Maine in Verse and Story 227 

only have believed the attack was coming on. We 
are going beautifully. Everything seems to be in 
perfect trim. If she holds this condition and pace 
we shall make it on time, and with the relief and 
you by his side, he will soon be all right." 

"Oh, I thank you," she cried. "Yes, my father 
does want me. We are great chums. Poor dear 
dad, we have great times together. I most always 
go with him to camp. It is glorious up there on 
the grand lake, and in the woods. We go fishing 
and on long tramps, camera snap shooting at the 
wild things. Dad sometimes shoots game birds, 
but he never uses a rifle. If we want venison in 
camp in season, the guides get it for us." 

She was growing quite cheerful and chatty at 
his reassuring words. A delightful companion. 
Oxley could well believe that they had glorious 
times in the splendid wilderness. Who could not 
with such a comrade? 

"Father wanted me to go with him this time," 
she continued. "But I wanted to— see — the avi- 
ation meet." 

If Oxley rejoiced at the fact that she could not 
see his face, she was equally as glad that he could 
not see hers. She was blushing furiously. Her 
aunt had let slip the fact that they had read all 
about him. Seen him daily at the field, and now 



228 Maine in Verse and Story 

she had innocently admitted that she had staid 
at home from an alluring week in the Maine 
wilds to see — He believed that she was going to 
say him. But for the purr of the engine she must 
have heard his heart thumping against his ribs. It 
was ten minutes past one when the lights of Ports- 
mouth lay close to their left. They had made as 
good as sixty miles in the first hour. On they flew 
up the northeast angle of the coast line, clearly 
defined in the full moonlight. 

They were over Maine now, the state of their 
goal. She chatted continuously. 

He was delighted at her knoweldge of himself. 
The papers had printed much about him. The son 
of a bank president in a small western city. He 
had been through college and had won his letter. 
He had taken up law and won admission to the 
bar. But, it was slow getting the position he de- 
sired. Then, loomed up suddenly the Wrights in 
their world startling aviation. He became in- 
terested; then a pupil; and once, in the thrill of 
the plane and the art of actually flying, he had 
taken it up in earnest. Launched out for himself, 
where he could work out his own idea's without dic- 
tation or hindrance, and in a ridiculously short 
time had won fame and money. 

That was about all as to his story. Conversa- 



Maine in Verse and Story 229 

tion made the time pass quicker. 

Though the night air at their altitude was rush- 
ing over them keen as a razor, she would not ad- 
mit of the least cold, saying that his care in having 
her so well wrapped with the impenetrable rubber 
cloak protected her completely. He was astonished 
at her thorough knowledge of every feature of the 
country gliding under them. She seemed to recog- 
nize every river and creek that gleamed below 
them. She pointed out each town. York Beach, 
Wells, Biddeford and Saco. The machine was 
flying perfectly. It was five minutes to two when 
Portland, Maine's chief city, lay below them. They 
had made fifty odd miles from Portsmouth in for- 
ty-five minutes. A good third of the journey had 
been accomplished. There was little wind. Night 
flying was favorable in that respect at least. They 
turned now, at her advice, straight up Casco Bay 
toward inland. The wonderful dots of its fa- 
mous islands made dark spots in the glimmering 
sheen. The lights of Brunswick soon showed far 
to the left of them. 

"Ah," said Oxley, a moment later. "There is 
the Kennebec." 

A silvery laugh greeted him. He turned to- 
ward her. 

"That is New Meadows river." she said. 



230 Maine in Verse and Story 

Oxley was some surprised when he thought it 
would be so easy. 

"Oh, there it is, then," he ventured, as another 
broad stream line showed ahead of them. 

"Wrong again," she said. "See, now, how 
easily you could go astray? That is the Andros- 
coggin. If you followed that up you would come 
into New Hampshire, a hundred miles from 
Moosehead." 

He was much molified now. "It is evident that 
I should have made a sorry job of it," he said, I — 

"There, there is the Kennebec," she shouted. 
She pointed ahead. "See, this river runs into it." 
They were directly over the Androscoggin now. 
You might have made a sorry job, but you would 
have tried. I knew the maze that it is. No one 
unfamiliar with everything here could have done 
it, and not one in a thousand would have offered 
to attempt it." 

Every fibre of his body was tingling. He saw 
now the gleaming line stretching far away up into 
the blur of the landscape of Maine, and what was 
now to be their guiding line, but he knew that he 
should have certainly missed it. He was glad, 
now, that she was with him. Her companionship 
was delightful. Hope, too, began to grow strong 
within him, that they should make it. He had 



Maine in Verse and Story 23 1 

certainly flown more hours than this ought to 
take before. Why not this much again? 

He gloried in the whole great import of it. 
They sailed in silence now for some time, they 
must have become affected with what aviators 
sometimes term as "altitude intoxication." At any 
rate, whatever it was, it was suddenly broken, 
when he shouted out in surprise, "Why, look I 
Have we made a mistake ? or have I unconsciously 
turned the plane? We are approaching the sea." 

And so it appeared, for ahead of them as 
far as eye could reach, or up and down, to right 
and left, shimmered the glimmering moon-lit sea. 

u Why, it looks like it, don't it?" replied Miss 
Walson, staring down at the silvery expanse. "But 
it can't be. The sea must be several miles distant, 
I am sure." 

He swung the plane inward now to keep from 
going over the sea. Heavens it was still glimmer- 
ing before him. Further in he swung. Horror 
upon horror a fearful realization came upon him. 
Land had disappeared. Nothing was visible be- 
low or around them but the great, boundless, 
rolling ocean. For the first time on the seat of an 
aeroplane fear seized him. It was a sensation 
entirely new to him. It strangled him, froze him, 
crazed him 



232 Maine in Verse and Story 

"My God," he cried. "What have I done? 
How did this happen? Why did I ever let you 
come? I was insane." I am a criminal. A— 

A shout of laughter startled him. It smote 
him, for he thought it was hysteria when she now 
realized their terrible situation. But he had yet a 
lot to learn about this wonderful girl. Hot sweat 
alternated with the chills. He never knew how 
he clung to the wheel in the first great shock of 
it. Not of any fear or thought of himself, but he 
felt that he was terribly guilty in bringing her in- 
to such a danger. 

"Don't you know what it is?" she cried. "How 
silly we both were. Why it is nothing but the fog. 
The white fog that comes on the Maine coast from 
the sea, almost in a minute, sometimes. But, of 
course, you did not know, and I have never seen it 
from such an altitude, or I should have known in 
a minute. It is nothing. We are all right, just 
the same, and nowhere near the sea." 

He believed that she was right, and her words 
lifted tons of weight from his suffering mind. In- 
land bred as he had been of course such a phe- 
nomenon was entirely new to him. But the relief 
was only momentary. Like an arctic blast the 
real seriousness of their position flashed back upon 
him. It might as well have been the sea. He 



Maine in Verse and Story 233 

would rather have died than alarm her as he must. 

"Miss Walson" he stammered. "I believe it is, 
as you say, the fog, but I must tell you that it is 
just as dangerous to us. I have a most unpardon- 
able thing to confess. I have come away with- 
out a compass. Mine was broken when I struck 
the pylon today trying to avoid a collision with 
young Howe. In my haste to get away I forgot to 
take another. The thing of all that I most 
needed. Of course if we can keep flying until 
the fog clears, we may escape injury. It 
would be extremely dangerous going down in 
this. But that is not all— not the worst, don't you 
see. All hope of reaching your father is now 
gone." 

He almost sobbed as he talked. He was ter- 
ribly crushed. How small he felt now, after all 
his secret boasting. How utterly helpless now in 
this new, strange situation. 

He felt her hand rest on his arm. It both soothed 
and hurt him. 

"You silly boy," she said. "There is no need 
of a compass. Look up there." 

She pointed to the mistless expanse of sky above 
them. 

"I know," he said. "But I have another, a 
more humiliating confession to make. I am uU 



234 Maine in Verse and Story 

terly ignorant of astronomy. That is a study that 
never came in my way. I know hardly one star 
from another. I believe I do know of the big 
dipper." 

"Well, that is enough," she cried. "For it is 
in the north, and by it we can find the pole star 
which is exact north. You are not expected to 
know quite everything. We can find the dipper. 
Let us find that, and then polaris and it will guide 
as all right. The Kennebec runs generally straight 
north. We will not be so very many miles away 
from it — 

"We will be many miles from it," he broke in. 
"For from the moment I found the earth blotted 
out I have been making an aviator's stop, flying in 
a short circle." 

"Oh, isn't that glorious, I never thought of such 
a thing. What one does not know or think of the 
other does," she cried. 

They were eagerly scanning the heavens as they 
circled. But finding the dipper was not so easy, 
the brilliant moonlight had greatly dimmed the 
stars. They were barely visible. 

"It is pretty low down," she said, "At this time 
of the year." 

Oxley was looking up as if fearing that the up- 
per plane might be hiding its view, 



Maine in Verse and Story 235 

"Perhaps we are turning too fast," he said. "I 
will take a wider circle, and that will give us more 
time." 

Intently they scanned the skies, but it seemed 
fruitless. Neither of them could define the dip- 
per. He knew that she must be getting alarmed, 
and would be suffering now, and his own heart 
sank lower and lower. He had but little hope in 
the scheme anyway, and they were losing valuable 
time. He had about given up, when suddenly she 
screamed like a child. "I've got it! I've got it! 
I see it. There, there, turn that way, that is it; 
now steady, straight ahead. Now don't you see 
it? Quite low down. There is the upper star 
of the handle there." She was pointing up at a 
low angle. 

"I see a star there. Yes," he said. 

"Well, now follow down this way. See the 
next one?" 

"I do," he said. 

"Now down this way." 

"By Jove, I make it out, now. The whole of it. 
That is the big dipper all right," he shouted ex- 
citedly. 

"Now then, take the two stars that form the far 
side of the bowl from the handle and follow their 
line up. There, see, that brighter star there?" 



236 Maine in Verse and Story 

she cried. 

"I certainly do see it plain enough," he said. 

"Well, that is Polaris, the north star, as sure as 
we are alive, and it will lead us as straight as 
would the river. Moosehead is forty miles long. 
The Kennebec leads out about midway of it, and 
we shall not be far from some part of it. The 
fog will clear, it won't run up as far as the lake. 
It will be daylight at five o'clock, and the lake 
must be in sight. If we find it it will be easy 
enough to get Chesuncook." 

She had shouted this gleefully. She was jubi- 
lantly certain of their chances now. He was hope- 
ful that she was right, but it was all so wild, un- 
natural and strange to him, that he was like one 
in a wild dream. One thing he was sure 
of, they were certainly getting away from 
any danger of the sea, but whether they 
should make the goal or not, was still 
a matter of some doubt to him. But, right 
or wrong, her distress was relieved, and that was 
worth a lot to him, and he would not allow her 
to dream of any doubt on his part. 

The plane was still working perfectly, which 
made him rejoice. It was near three o'clock. They 
had lost some ground. He could not know how 
much. But he hatl not flown yet at his fullest 



Maine in Verse and Story 237 

speed, and he meant now to strain her to make up 
and be in sight of the lake at daylight. 

"I'm afraid I shall have to ask you to keep 
tabs on that star," he said. "I have little faith in 
myself, now, but you can be the skipper, captain, 
pilot, all. I can run the plane, and I will direct 
her just where you say." 

"I will be nothing of the kind," she flashed 
back. "I will keep the star in sight and tell you 
right or left if we deflect. But, you are the cap- 
tain just the same, and of the most wonderful ship 
in the world, that can sail where no other ship 
ever did. Whoever saw the like of this before?" 
she exclaimed rapturously, her fair hand sweep- 
ing the half circle in front of them. It was, in- 
deed, the strangest voyage ever sailed by any 
young couple. Eagles, wild geese and swans had 
traversed this path before, up and down, but man- 
kind, never. It was a journey outrivalling the 
most extravagant play or story. The world had 
vanished. They were not of it now, but were two 
souls cast adrift in the infinite altitude of heaven's 
eternal space. These two alone. Alone? Ah, 
no, there was another passenger, a mythical one, 
that is familiarly pictured as a chubby little naked 
chap with wings of his own. Unseen by them he 
had stolen a passage on one of the wings of the 



238 Maine in Verse and Story 

plane, where he had a clear range at them. For 
he is said to be an archer, an expert marksman, 
and he was not shirking at his work. There was 
special marks for him there. Perhaps he knew 
of it when he stowed away, and his darts flew 
fast and true. 

The girl was intoxicated with the weird situa- 
tion. She was jubilant in her faith that they were 
making right, and the wild mystic enchantment of 
it was affecting her. She exulted and delighted 
in the experience so utterly new and unlike any- 
thing ever before known. It was just what her 
nature craved. Something widely out of the 
threadbare routine of the every day humdrum 
world. And here it was, in all fullness, and she 
was gorging, drinking her fill. 

"See," she cried. "We are waifs in starland. 
Voyagers in the archipelago of the boundless 
heavens. We are hobnobbing with the moon and 
the planets, with the legions of eternity. Our 
ship is a meteor, our sea is the moonbeams, and 
our beacon is a star." 

She had grown poetical. Oxley began to catch 
her spirit. He was intoxicated to the full in the 
thrall of her. He did not know where they were. 
Whither they were really bound. To what end, 
or when that end would come. But what did it 



Maine in Verse and Story 239 

matter? He was in the place of all the world he 
would now desire to be in, by her side, listening to 
the music of her voice; her laughter, the sweet- 
est he had ever heard. They were leaning each 
toward the other. She with her hand still rest- 
ing on his nearer arm, while the plane now drove 
with its best speed toward the pole star. It was 
as eternity. Time had ceased to them, in its true 
standard of measurement. Minutes were now do- 
ing the work of hours, and hours the work of 
months in the progress of their lives. In their iso- 
lation they for the time lost all sense of the world 
they had left, and lapsed into unconsciousness of 
everything but themselves. Cupid in such an 
advantage works fast. His darts shoot true to 
the mark. Soul binds soul, and hearts weld strong 
for eternity, and thus they flew on, and on through 
the dreamy star dotted film of the firmament, ever 
steering for the star of —whatever their destiny. 

The boundless wraith below them showed no 
break. Oxly hardly cared. He was too supreme- 
ly happy. The small light showing the dial of 
his plane clock, revealed that the minutes were 
slipping by. Three o'clock and four o'clock had 
come and gone. The minute hand was creeping 
up the half circle toward the hour of five, and 
now a new danger began to assert itself. A new 



240 Maine in Verse and Story 

light in the east began to assist the moon in dim- 
ming their guiding star. Soon its light would be 
gone altogether. Then there would be a half hour 
at least that they must go by sheer dead reckon- 
ing. He meant to set the wheel as soon as they 
lost the star. A swiftly flying plane unless steered 
does not swerve much from a straight course. As 
yet they had not encountered fluke or pocket in 
the winds. What would be their location when 
the fog should clear and earth become visible he 
could not guess. Would her knowledge of the 
chorography of Maine enable her to establish their 
position, and show her the way to their goal? He 
ceased to be the dreamer now. As the climax 
was nearing he became again the alert man of 
thought and action. He hoped in all hope that 
their position would be favorable to them. Every- 
thing of the plane had gone so perfectly. Oil, 
water, the engine, everything was right and in 
plenty. She too now realized that they were near- 
ing an important time. She was leaning slightly 
forward, intently holding to the fast dimming 
speck of the pole star. He told her, then, what 
he meant to do. 

"That will be splendid," she said. "But oh, if 
the fog would only clear." 

"Do you still see the star?" he asked, 



Maine in Verse and Story 241 

"Yes, but it is about all I can do," she replied. 
"We are going straight toward it." 

"Do not strain your eyes any more," he said. 
"I have set the wheel and we cannot go very much 
astray. Besides the rising sun will soon show us 
the east, and that will help some." 

They talked like old shipmates now, hardened 
to the sailoring they were living. Full daylight 
crept upon them, and the great golden glow of the 
rising sun was lighting up the mist square to their 
right. It was about half past five when wild 
shouts of joy from the girl startled him. 

"Look! Oh look!" she screamed, "The fog is 
breaking." 

She was pointing to the left. He looked and be- 
held a group of mountain tops like islands now 
glowing in the first rays of the sun. But that 
was not all. Another and more joyous cry caused 
him to look where she was pointing, almost 
straight ahead. The mist had crept away reveal- 
ing a large expanse of gleaming silver, with a won- 
derful scroll of boundary extending in all direc- 
tions. 

"It is Moosehead! Moosehead !" she scream- 
ed. "It is the lake. Look, those are the Spuaw 
Mountains, and there are Deer and Sugar Is- 
lands. We are coming over Greenville bay, be- 



242 Maine in Verse and Story 

tween the Junction and village. See, there are 
the villages. Turn straight up the lake. Oh, isn't 
it wonderful, you splendid boy. We are only 
twelve miles away from the Kennebec. There, 
it makes out there in that big bay," she pointed 
ahead. 

She screamed like a child and clapped her gloved 
hands. Oxley was afraid she would fall out of 
her seat, so great was her joy. He was too full 
for utterance. Silently he exulted and held to 
the wheel, giving the plane every mile of speed 
that was in it. A new daring now possessed the 
delighted girl. "We will not follow the lake," 
she said. "We will cut across country and save 
many miles. Keep straight over that ridge," she 
pointed to the sombre back of Burnt Jacket, show- 
ing clear to the right. "We will go up by Lily 
and Spencer bays, and see. We have another true 
guide there. I had forgotten it." 

Truly disciplined he turned to the course she 
had directed. He had no doubt of her now to 
pilot them anywhere. He looked where she was 
pointing and saw far in the distance the gleam- 
ing dome of a magnificent mountain, its crest white 
with snow. 

"That is Kathadin," she said, "Maine's great 
mountain. It lies straight east of Chesuncook. 



Maine in Verse and Story 243 

We shall be at the camp in less than an hour. Oh, 
my father. We shall be in time, and we shall 
save him. This medicine I have will do it. Oh, 
what a debt I shall owe you." 

Oxley knew that the world would ring with the 
tale of that night's work. But of that he cared 
naught. What he was hearing then from her lips 
was worth more than gold or the plaudits of a 
thousand worlds to him. The sun was now kiss- 
ing the mountain tops, and the panorama now 
opened out below was magnificent, such as he had 
never seen before. They passed Lily bay and soon 
the domes of the two Spencers lay off to the left 
of them. Animated, excited and enthusiastic as a 
child she pointed out this and that lake, stream 
and mountain. Her knowledge of the wild, mag- 
nificent maze surprised him, and its sweeping vast- 
ness awed him. He was a sportsman himself, a 
great lover of the wilds. But such as he had seen 
were limited. He longed to traverse this country 
below him and have a try at some of the trout 
and salmon that he knew must be in those waters. 
They had crossed Roach river and left it far be- 
hind. Ragged and Caribou lakes soon lay before 
them. Caribou at the greater distance. When 
she pointed that out she screamed with glee, for it 
is really a great arm of Chesuncook. It was just 



244 Maine in Verse and Story 

six o'clock when a long silvery expanse of water 
rivalling Moosehead began to reveal itself clearly 
ahead. 

"There it is," she cried. "There's old Chesun- 
cook. Keep straight across it, and we will go up 
the other shore. The camp is on that side." 

Soon they were crossing the splendid lake about 
midway of its long length. 

u Oh, you glorious, wonderful boy," she cried. 
"You are going to make it. Going to win out as 
you always have at everything, and pretty close on 
time, too, in spite of what we lost by the fog. I 
told aunt I knew you would do it — 

"Me," he broke in. "Me. That is kind of 
you I am sure. But I had as much to do in reach- 
ing this place as old Dan Tucker. I never could 
have got here. I should have been in Vermont, 
New Brunswick, by now, or over sea. Me. I 
should have made a sorry job of it alone. I doubt 
if I can ever do anything again, alone, Ver— I 
beg your pardon, Miss Walson, but this will be my 
last flight. It would be sacrilege— again— after 
this — 

"I doubt if you will be let fly again," she said. 

His heart was thumping like a sledge hammer. 
The hot blood surged within him. 

"Look! Look! There is the point, and the 



Maine in Verse and Story 245 

camps. See, there is smoke coming from the chim- 
ney. Oh, Jack"— 

It was a wonder that he held the wheel. He 
saw the camp plainly. They were less than ten 
minutes away. But it looked more like a shore 
villa at Newport, than a wilderness camp. One 
thing he had not asked about, and it had given 
him some concern, that was the matter of a suit- 
able landing place. But he distinguished broad, 
clean fields and the fullness of his joy and triumph 
was complete. An aviator's flight, short or long 
as it may be is never surely accomplished until 
the plane has touched the earth again and stop- 
ped unharmed. There is not a certain second 
while motion lasts. Many an aviator has met his 
death at the very last moment. After a world as- 
tonishing feat in flying. But he was reasonably 
sure now that his goal was won. She was sitting 
silent now, shaking with conflicting emotions. She 
wanted to laugh and cry at once. The plane was 
dashing down a long gentle slope now. Earth 
was coming up nearer, more distinct. The morn- 
ing wind was rising. The faithful engine stop- 
ped for the first time in six hours. As the great 
strange bird swooped down over the green, sev- 
eral cattle were frightened out of their wits, and 
stampeded up the field to a safe vantage and 



246 Maine in Verse and Story 

turned staring at the strange sight. The wheels 
met the turf, settled and ran along for a few rods, 
and then the plane stopped close to a small pine 
grove. The camp within two minutes walk on 
the other side. 

Oxley sprang to the ground and threw off his 
great coat and mask, revealing his face, white 
and strangely drawn. He shook like a poplar 
tree. He unwrapped her feet while she slipped 
off her hood and her own face mask. But her 
face rivalled the maple leaves over on the ridge, 
and her eyes looked down into his, speaking 
volumes in sweet eye language. He grew bold. 
He flung everything to the winds. He held up his 
arms outspread. Unhesitating she let herself fall 
into them like a child. He clasped her quivering 
form and crushed it to him. Her solid weight 
unbalanced him as he swung her a little to steady 
himself. He brought her face close before him. 
He kissed her, once, twice, a dozen times, full on 
lips, that did not shrink, but lay mute, recep- 
tive. Her eyes closed as if asleep. Then he 
attempted to speak, feeling as if immersed in ice 
water at his great daring. 

"Oh, Vera — Miss Walson," he said, "dismiss 
me, scorn me if you will, I deserve it, but I could 
not help it, I am insane. Oh, I love you, love you, 



Maine in Verse and Story 247 

love you"— 

"Jack," she said. "What you 'deserve,' you— 
got." 

He realized that one of her arms had stolen 
up over his shoulder. The blood surged hot again 
within him. "Vera," he cried, darlingest, bravest, 
brightest girl in the world. Oh, God, is it true? 
Speak one word, you are not ang— 

"Jack," she whispered. "I love you. I loved 
you— before— last night or I never would have 
asked you to do this for me. Let us go to the 
house now." 

The little winged God that had sat all this time 
laughing on the rigid forgotten plane, now flew 
away on his own wings, satisfied with his night's 
work. 

They left the plane for the inspection of the 
outraged cattle that had step by step stolen back 
to a respectful distance, puffing and snorting. 

She cried out in pain as she attempted to walk. 
Oxley steadied her for a few steps, but her supple 
muscles soon recovered their action. He felt as 
if he was still in the air. A moment later he 
emerged from the grove, close to the rear of the 
fine main building. A man just coming down the 
porch steps stopped and stared at them in amaze- 
ment. "Miss Vera," he gasped. 



248 Maine in Verse and Story 

"Benson, how is father?" she asked. 

"He— oh,— why he is having one of those at- 
tacks of his. We telegraphed for you to come by 
special train last night and bring some medicine 
he wants. Some one is likely at Kineo by now 
with it. 

She was smiling. She held up the phial. "Here 
it is," she said, "I got the telegram all right at 
seven forty-five last night." 

They both smiled at the look on the old guide's 
face. 

"In Boston?" he gasped. "Last— night. Don't 
joke Miss Vera, but before God then, how did 
you get here at this time? Did you drop from 
the skies?" 

"Yes," she cried. "That is it, that is just what 
we did do. Telegraph at once to aunt and to 
Kineo and tell Johnson to go back. You will ex- 
cuse me now Jack," she said, "and hurried 
through a door into the house. Oxley quickly ex- 
plained to the gaping guide, but it is doubtful if 
he believed the story until he had stolen through 
the grove and seen the evidence of the plane with 
the cattle." 

Oxley had just sat down to his breakfast when 
she. again appeared, an hour later. She looked 
radiant and happy. She was clad in a bewitching 



Maine in Verse and Story 249 



camp costume. 

"How is your father?" he asked. 

"Sleeping beautiful, the medicine has eased him 
at once. We got here just right. He will be all 
right in a day or two. But it is a bad attack, it is 
acute indigestion. He had grown careless ; he will 
be more careful; he thought he was all right." 

She was a thousand times more beautiful than 
ever. 

"Are you getting anything to eat?" she asked. 

"Oh, I could go outside and yell for an hour, 
like we did in college," he said, "at what you say 
about your father, that I have been able to help 
you and get you here in safety and on time. Eat? 
Well I should say so. Won't you join me? This 
is a feast for the gods; these trout are delicious, 
I never tasted of anything like them, and these 
beans— oh, Mummer." 

"Benson cooked them in the bean hole," she 
said. "But that isn't anything, there'll be veni- 
son, duck and partridge and"— 

Thus they ate their first meal together. She 
looked like a composite of Juno and Diana, sit- 
ting there opposite him in the great picturesque 
main room, with the walls adorned with astonish- 
ing heads of moose and deer, groups of birds, and 
huge specimens of salmon and trout, all mounted 



250 Maine in Verse and Story 

and set, true to life. 

He knew that she was his now. But he did not 
intend to broach the subject of marriage, not yet. 
There was much to do, much to reckon with. 
There was the matter of her father, what was he 
likely to say? Some job to tackle Jonas Q. Wal- 
son on most any subject, say nothing about asking 
for the hand of his only idolized daughter. A 
man that could cause the giants of the financial 
world to shake in their shoes at the sound of his 
footfall would not be likely to give his daughter 
over off hand to a stranger of a night. He might 
have ideas of his own on that score. Besides Ox- 
ley did not wish to seem to be taking advantage 
because of an obligation. It was a delicate situa- 
tion that had come upon him like a lightning stroke 
out of a clear sky, changing his whole life in a 
night. He was dazed, uncertain as to what he 
ought to do. He hinted at returning to Boston. 

"What, are you in such a hurry to leave me 
now?" she said. 

"God forbid," he said. "Leave you. I would 
never leave you. Don't tease me. But don't you 
see I am in a delicate position. Your father, 
what may he have to say? I must make a name; 
do something to" — 

"Now, not another word of that kind," she 



Maine in Verse and Story 251 

said. "I want you to meet him first. Dear old 
dad, he is the best father in the world. I guess 
he does stir up the menagerie some in the stock 
exchanges and railroad deals when they try to get 
the best of him. You are all right here, this is 
not a bad place, and remember, you are still under 
my captaincy. I have not discharged you yet, and 
I'm not going to, I want a little of you to myself 
now that I have got you. You may not see much 
of me for a day or two, until dad gets better, but 
I know that he will be all right in a short time 
now. The fall fishing is at its best and I want 
you to have some of it with me in my motor boat. 
There is everything you need here, the aviation 
meet is over, the telephone and telegraph will car- 
ry your instructions to your men in Boston." 

Oxley was dazed, every word that she had said 
was a separate thrill, if Benson had not been com- 
ing in and out of the room he would have re- 
peated the scene at the abandoned plane. It was 
rapture though to see and hear her; there was no 
gainsaying her, she dominated him absolutely, 
soul and body, and there was joy in the bonds, 
there was not the least fear on her part of her 
father. Two days later he was taken in to meet 
the iron financier. He was much better, but 
showed his illness. 



252 Maine in Verse and Story 

"Papa, this is Jack," was all she said. 

"My little girl has told me all about your sky 
scooting together," he said. 

The hot blood surged to Oxley's temples. He 
wondered if she had "told him all." The steel 
grey eyes set in the square jawed face of the mag- 
nate seemed to read his every thought. 

"Yes, all," he continued, "My girl keeps nothing 
from me. She don't need to. She wouldn't do 
anything I would not approve of." 

Oxley's heart was in his mouth, the great mo- 
ment had come, but a strange confidence possessed 
him and he went to face it as he had all other 
things. 

"Mr. Walson," he began, "I never met your 
daughter until last Friday night. But that seems 
ages ago, I lived a long time during that night, 
and I"— 

"Now cut that all out boy," roared the man, "I 
know all you would say; time counts nothing, it is 
what is done that goes, whether it is a minute or 
a year, I rate men according to what they do, it's 
the ones that do that I am looking for." 

"Yes," broke in Oxley, "But have I done— as 
much as you think I have, in her natural grati- 
tude for assistance in getting her to the relief of 
the father she loves and venerates has she not 



Maine in Verse and Story 253 

overestimated it a little? Has she told you what 
an inglorious failure I should have made of it 
but for her? Did she tell you how I came away 
on such a trip— and with her, without a compass? 
That I lost my head entirely when the fog came 
and obliterated the earth from our sight, and the 
trail of the river we were to follow was lost. Did 
she tell you that with the whole clear heavens 
above us, spread out like a chart, it was all a 
blank to me, and that in spite of the glare of the 
moonlight she dug out the pole star by the aid 
of the dipper, and by it guided us from the sea 
to Moosehead lake and struck it square without 
a sight of the earth once? Did she tell you that? 
Me. Bah. It was her head that thought out 
and conducted the whole thing, I was merely the— 
a part of the engine, and she would run that— in 
an hour's schooling." 

Walson's eyes snapped several times during 
this spirited recital. 

"Oh, .1 always knew she was heady," he said. 
"No, she did not tell me any such thing as that," 
he continued. "But she did tell me some things 
you have lost sight of, that to save my worthless 
life for her, you would have attempted this dan- 
gerous thing, alone, and fetched up, God knows 
where, or how, you responded to the call." 



254 Maine in Verse and Story 

You'd have tried and I ain't so darned cer- 
tain you wouldn't have made it but for the fog, 
and that you didn't know much about. You want 
to do something, eh? 

I wonder if it hasn't occurred to you that you've 
done a few things already? 

I've found out a few of 'em myself, when a 
young man smart enough to lick the Universal 
Farm Machinery Co. to a standstill and make 'em 
cough up to a poor cripple whose patent they had 
tried to beat gives up law for this sky business, I 
took pains to find out why, and it was because it 
wasn't coming fast enough to suit you, and you 
never took a cent out of it either, left it all to the 
cripple. 

Oh, baseball managers ain't the only ones that 
keep an eye out for good timber, I have a habit 
of doing that myself, and that ain't all, I know 
some other things, how you thrashed the bully 
who tried to break up the prayer meeting, you 
was fifteen and he was eighteen— and big enough 
to eat you. I know how you went into the blaz- 
ing hell of a tenement house and lowered the Greek 
woman's kid down with a bed cord, and then near 
had your own neck broken by the twenty foot drop 
when the cord burnt off above you as you was 
shinnying down, 



Maine in Verse and Story 255 

I happened to be present that day when you 
bowled through the stone wall, Jarvis interference, 
and made the sixty yard run to a touchdown that 
won the game for old Belisle. Do things, eh, 
you've been doing things all your life. Some of 
'em have made the world gasp. It's gasping now. 
I don't know what they'll do to you when you get 
out. But this flying business you've got to cut 
that out now. You told Vera this was your last 
flight. It was. There is only one inevitable end 
to it, and you have been lucky enough to escape 
it so far. But we'll take no more chances. I don't 
want to lose a boy like you, I need you. I want 
you to open offices in Boston under your own name. 
You'll be worth twenty-five thousand a year to 
me for a starter, and I'll undertake to see that 
business comes fast enough to suit you and keep 
you on the earth. And here is a little something 
as a souvenir of your last flying trip— No, 1 
won't put it that way. You've got a better re- 
membrance of that." 

He handed Oxley a slip of paper. He took it 
curiously, then his eyes opened some wider, it was 
a check for twenty-five thousand dollars. 

"Do you accept the proposition?" the mag- 
nate asked. 

Tears dimmed Oxley' s eyes ; he shook like a 



256 Maine in Verse and Story 

leaf. 

"Mr. Walson," he stammered. "Certainly, I — 
accept the business opportunity. It is a big thing, 
and I don't know as I can fill the bill, I'll cer- 
tainly try hard. But this check— What— 

"There, not a word," said the financier. "That 
is for part value received, I consider my life worth 
several times that amount, and you saved it. What 
a man earns is his, and there is no question or dis- 
cussion about it. You earned that several times 
over. Now after you have had a good vacation 
and I get well on my feet we'll get back and get 
after them. Now it ought to be mighty good fish- 
ing up in otter bay, they'll rise something fierce 
this forenoon, it's just right. I know someone that 
is mighty anxious to get out after 'em in her 
motor boat. I'm all right so she can leave me 
now, mebbe you can find her." 

Dazed, almost blinded, trembling in every fibre 
with a greater joy than he ever hoped to know, he 
took the hand held out to him. 

Out on the broad veranda overlooking the lake 
and the landing where a beautiful motor boat lay 
gently rocking he found her. She looked at him 
coyly. Boldly he strode over to her and took her, 
again in his arms. 

"You little brick," he said. 



Maine in Verse and Story 257 



NOVEMBER 

Now, down the skies, the last bird flies, 

To southern haunts of yore, 
To the reedy brinks, where bobolink 

Has journeyed long before. 

The break of day is chill and grey, 

And distant meets the eye, 
Katahdin's bleak and snow clad peak 

Against the northern sky. 

Across the down 'tis sere and brown, 

The frost fell hard at dawn, 
The leafy veil has cleared the dale 

And wide the gullys yawn. 

In every walk grey spectres stalk, 
Of flowers late blooming gay, 

The woods are still, where thrush's trill 
Rang in the roundelay. 

The lily splays have cleared the bays 
The deep is black and drear, 

By stream and lake, the flag and brake 
Are rustling dry and sear. 

Thus, summer's day soon fades away, 

As scenes must ever shift, 
Today the flowers, and birds are ours, 

Tomorrow, cold and drift. 



258 Maine in Verse and Story 



'Twould be a strain of deepest pain, 
Were it not true to sing, 

For every night, the morning light, 
For every winter, spring. 



Maine in Verse and Story 259 



PISCALOSIS 

Have you got a "shifty" feeling, 

As the green begins to show? 
Does your mind persist in stealing 

From the ruts it ought to flow? 
You're impatient like and acting 

Like a youngster quarter grown, 
And the places most attracting, 

Where the rods and things are shown. 

Then, a careful diagnosis, 

From the symptoms— pretty sure, 
Show the case is piscalosis, 

And there's just a single cure, 
Just consult the latest folder, 

Pack your traps and take the train, 
Fling your worry o'er your shoulder, 

And go a fishing, down in Maine. 



260 Maine in Verse and Story 



THE SCYTHESMAN 

There's a grim old wraith with a scythe and snath, 

And his hair flows long and white, 
As in stubborn faith on his stealthy path, 

He stalks both day and night, 
And he mows down old, and he mows down young 

In a ceaseless steady stride, 
And bare is the mold where his blade has swung 

And the swath lays clear and wide. 

He takes no "bait" at an ending swath, 

And never of slumber's lull, 
With a pend'lum's gait doth he keep his troth, 

And his blade grows never dull, 
He is deaf to sighs, and blind to tears, 

Of those who weep and moan, 
For he knows no ties, and knows no fears, 

And to none must he atone. 

No stalk so grand, or flower so fair, 

A single stroke shall stay, 
Just as they stand in equal share, 

He clips them, on his way, 
They are but spears of human grain 

That to his knife must fall, 
And worth and years appeal in vain. 

He reaps them, one and all. 



Maine hi Verse and Story 261 



OL' NATUR' 'LL EVEN UP 

Some say that Natur' 's freaky, 

An' at times inclined to shirk, 
That her system 's sometimes leaky 

An' it fails to do its work, 
But, as far 's my observation, 

An' of such as I can read 
Why, since this oV 'arth's creation 

She has met 'bout every need. 
Of the all that's comin' to us 

She will brew a brimmin' cup, 
And of what is yearly due us, 

Why, ol' Natur' '11 even up. 

Sometimes it may be 'arly comin' 

And sometimes a little late, 
But, you take it in the summin' 

An' it's pretty true to date, 
If the spring comes on a laggin' 

Then the summer works the more, 
An' if summer's heat is draggin' 

Then the fall '11 pay the score, 
So then as its goin' Brother, 

You will get your fullest sup, 
And one season with the other, 

Why, ol' Natur' '11 even up. 



262 Maine in Verse and Story 



THE SKEPTIC 

Upon the mountain's battled crest 

Storm beat of ice and snow, 
The skeptic viewed from east to west 

The wond'rous earth below, 
The mighty sweep of forest plain, 

The water ways that bound 
As link and pearl of a giant chain 

The lesser hills around. 

He thought of all the planet kin 

Buoyed in the boundless blue, 
Their eons of never swerving spin 

On orbits fraction true, 
Thus, came beating to his mind 

The more he pondering scanned, 
The whole vast system, who designed? 

And whose the guiding hand? 
Chance? Ah, no, this is no hap of odd, 

Then, hat in hand he bowed and said, 
"There must— there is, a God." 



Maine in Verse and Story 263 



CASTLES IN THE AIR 

Oh, the castles, ever building, 

In the great sometime, somewhere, 
Oh, the splendor, oh the gilding 

Of these villas of the air, 
Bright their minarets are lifting, 

High the loom of dome and spire, 
Then, how swiftly they are drifting 

As the clouds in sunlight's fire. 

Since the soul first knew ambition, 

Knew the lure of fame and gain, 
Ever faithful on their mission 

Came these fancies of the brain, 
E'er they've vanished, through the ages, 

Blighted hope's unwritten reams, 
History's blank and barren pages, 

In the vaults of shattered dreams. 

Yet, who failed in realizing, 

Has he lived it all in vain? 
Were it not better, hope's arising 

Than it had in torpor lain? 
Man takes naught at life's expiring, 

Then who shall say but somewhere lives, 
And waits the crowns of his desiring 

From the hand that justice gives. 



264 Maine in Verse and Story 



JONES' PIG PORK 

JONES is a modest follower of agricultural 
pursuits, his little domain is snugly tucked 
among the hills, a few leagues east of Ban- 
gor. He prides himself on marketing an ex- 
ceptionally fine article in pig pork, and that he has 
an enviable reputation in this trade is certain, 
and the limited supply of "Jones' Pig Pork," al- 
ways meets with ready sale. 

One summer as usual, Jones raised a goodly 
number of squealers to an average "heft" of 100 
pounds, and out of the lot he reserved as usual 
one smooth and "likely looker" intended to tickle 
the fine sensibilities of his own organs of taste 
when he should have added a few extra choice 
pounds to its rib and loin. With great care Jones 
fed this prize on the richest "nubbins" in the crib, 
and he spent much time beside the sty gently 
scratching the pink back of the plump young pork- 
er within. 

Meanwhile his mouth watered as his thoughts 
dwelt with daily increasing gusto on prospective 
feasts of "roast sparerib and cider apple sass," 
savory chops and delicious sausages. 

Now it happened that Jones was not the only 



Maine in Verse and Story 265 

connoisseur of pork in that locality. The other 
was a black bear, with a shaggy coat, and about 
400 pounds of raw bone and muscle in his make 
up. 

Now like all of the rest of his kind there was 
nothing on earth that so excited his olfactories, 
and whetted his appetite as a tender young hog, 
there was nothing that he would go so far for, or 
take as desperate chances to obtain. This bear 
probably up to this time had been as peaceable 
and as law abiding as any citizen of the woods. 
But there were mitigating circumstances in his case 
just now. Business had been poor all summer, 
the severe drouth of the spring and consequent 
forest fires followed later by unseasonable frosts 
had ruined the berry crop, and that wan't all, the 
ants had gone on strike and had not worked the 
mines in the old rotten logs and stumps, hibernat- 
ing time was fast upon him and instead of being 
provided with thick layers of fat to draw upon 
during his long winter's sleep, he was gaunt and 
thin and desperately hungry. One night he was 
rummaging around down in a cedar swamp back 
of Jones' farm buildings. He was sullen and 
ruminating on the hard times and his own hard 
luck. But as yet no thought of outlawry had en- 
tered his mind. But suddenly a frolicsome zephyr/ 



266 Maine in Verse and Story 

gamboling along from the direction of Jones' barn 
had caught up and brought along with it a taint 
that set every fibre of 01' Eph's anatomy to 
tingling. He stopped, sat upright on his haunches, 
and remarked, u Whoo— oo— oof," something like 
the exhaust of a shovel. Instantly he had become 
a changed creature, blood thirsty and desperate, 
his thoughts filled with carnage and violence. He 
directly left the swamp and followed the scent 
straight up the hill to Jones' barn. All was quiet- 
ness there, the cattle were dozing peacefully in 
their stalls. Lined along the poles in the lean-to 
the headless chickens were in their land of slum- 
ber. But OP Eph cared naught for any of these. 

Down back of the barn a piece of scantling was 
leaning against a door that led into the cellar. He 
cuffed this aside and the door opened just a crack. 
Into this bruin placed his offending nose, took a 
good sniff, and again remarked, but this time more 
emphatically, "Wh-o-o-o-o-f." There was a sud- 
den violent rustling of straw, a scampering of feet 
and a frightened, "Ugh, ugh!" 

Bruin must have understood this as an invita- 
tion to step in, for he whisked the door wide open 
and lumbered lordly into the cellar. There was a 
cracking of boards, a wild chase around a 1 2-foot 
pen, a struggle, accompanied by terrific squealing. 



Maine in Verse and Story 267 

When bruin came out a moment later he was 
walking on his hind feet like a man, and he 
clasped tightly in his huge fore paws a desperately 
struggling young hog, that was making the hills 
ring with his frantic yells. 

These air clearing shrieks conveyed a wireless 
message to the receiving station of Jones' ears, 
warning him, though in the deepest slumber, that 
his pet porker was in very serious trouble. He 
tumbled out of bed and tried to pull his trousers 
on over his head. When he had them at last prop- 
erly adjusted he rushed for his gun, only to re- 
member that he had loaned it to Smith only the 
day before. 

Then he tore open the door and dashed for the 
barn. Silence and the open door explained mat- 
ters there, but now away down in the lot he heard 
the smothered dying wails of a hog. 

Jones ran stumbling in the direction of the 
sounds, and soon made out in the gloom a huge 
upright form, moving with surprising rapidity to- 
ward the nearby swamp. 

He knew that it was a bear, hungry and ugly, 
bearing away his beloved porker. At first he tried 
to reason with him, but with no success; then he 
got mad and called him by all the mean names he 
could think of. But the thoughts of the coming 



268 Maine in Verse and Story 

feast superseded any sting of insult. Beside that 
he was now close to the swamp. There was a 
swishing of boughs, the sound of footsteps faint- 
er and fainter, and he was gone— likewise Jones' 
pork. 



Maine in Verse and Story 269 



BUSTER IN MAINE 

""W T" ES," said the guide, "We do run 
^^/ against some mighty amusing things 
I with the sportsmen that come down 
-*" here into the woods. Now there was 
Huntoon, he'd been coming down here for years; 
good fellow, but 'tarnally bragging about his won- 
derful dog Buster, that he had at his home up in 
Massachusetts, and telling what he'd do if he was 
only down here. Huntoon would set and talk by 
the hour about that dog, the hundreds of other 
dogs he'd licked, woodchucks and rabbits he'd 
holed in the stone piles and walls, the calves and 
cats he'd outrun, and the holy terror he was in 
general. Well, that was all right, he might have 
been some pup as Massachusetts canines go, but I 
always tried to discourage him about bringing him 
down here. I told him these woods was no place 
for him, besides the wardens would be likely to 
shoot him for a deer dog. But it was no use, when 
he come down one fall Buster was with him, and 
such a mutt, a long legged, lanky, ungainly cuss, 
of a grizzly brindle brown color, body and tail 
something after a pointer, but with the head and 
jowls more like a mastiff. Oh, he was a beaut and 



270 Maine in Verse and Story 

no mistake, but he was a good natured lummox, 
and Huntoon was sure fond of him. He was 
crazy to get him out in the woods, but I tried to 
induce him to leave him in camp. It was no go, 
he couldn't hardly wait till next morning, and 
bright and early he started out with him alone. 
"On a little skirmish with him," he said it was. 
Well, the first thing Buster run up against was 
the biggest woodchuck he'd ever seen, and he 
must have went at him like a cyclone. The hedge- 
hog just rolled himself up in a ball and told the 
Bay state terror to wade in and help himself, and 
he did. Well, it took us two hours to take about 
two hundred quills out of him from all parts of 
his ugly carcass. Huntoon got straddle of him 
and held him down, I pulled out the needles and 
Buster did the howling; he was pretty sick and 
Huntoon kept him at camp for a couple days, 
but after that he was up and ready again for any- 
thing in the woods, bar porcupine. 

His next experience brought him no bodily in- 
jury, but it hurt his pride worse than anything that 
had ever happened to him, it was a lesson in 
speed. I do really give the dog credit that up to 
this time he had never met up with anything that 
could outrun him, he certainly could hump him- 
self and leave space behind him. It was this way, 



Maine in Verse and Story 27 1 

we were all coming along a tote road against a 
stiff wind, Buster was snooping on ahead as usual, 
we come around a sharp turn and come plump on 
to a fine Jersey calf. Now it is against the law for 
dogs to chase that kind of calves in the Maine 
woods, and Huntoon had told the warden at 
Machias that Buster had never seen or heard 
of a deer and wouldn't be allowed to catch one if 
he saw one. 

He didn't catch him, but it was no thanks to 
either Buster or Huntoon, for he let out a yell and 
was after the doe like a shot out of a cannon. A 
few minutes later we got up on the top of the 
ridge, and there sat Buster looking up into the 
different trees, and all about him. I never saw 
such a flabbergasted expression on any dog's face, 
he whined, and looked at us for sympathy, he 
was trying hard to figure out just where the thing 
had disappeared to, and how he had done it, you 
could see him hang his head and think. I think 
he finally doubted if he had really seen anything 
at all. Huntoon had hard work to get him away 
from there, he was dazed and distracted, and 
didn't act himself again all that day. 

It was a week later that Buster took his third 
degree and met his Waterloo. We were returning 
from a trip over to Loon lake with some nice trout 



272 Maine in Verse and Story 

for supper. Buster as usual scooting all around 
ahead into every pokish looking cave and hole he 
could find, he'd hustled up rabbits and squirrels, 
and was having the time of his life, suddenly he 
gave an extra sharp yell and dove into a big hole 
in the ledge. I felt sorry for him in a minute, and 
sensed what was up, we both run towards the hole, 
then we heard the muffled sounds of terrible cater- 
wauling and ki-yi-ing, clods of dirt, and clouds of 
dust come flying out of the hole, the snarls and 
howls grew louder, then out come Buster with a 
bob cat on his back executing about two thousand 
scratches to the minute, with all four claws, all 
over his anatomy. He didn't know what he was up 
against, whether it was a snarl of live wires or a 
flock of buzz saws, as they rolled down the little 
side hill into the gully it looked like one of those 
little cyclones that often kiter across country in 
summer. It was all over though in a minute, and 
the cat had bid him good day, call again, and had 
gone back into the hole to mind the kittens. 

We took the remains of Buster down to the 
brook and soused him and washed him up, he 
looked as if some enterprising butcher had run 
him through a sausage machine. There might 
have been a spot on his hide the cat had missed, 
but we couldn't find it. Huntoon cried like a school 



Maine in Verse and Story 273 

boy. I felt sorry for him, but I knew that Buster 
was all right, only badly scratched up, but that 
settled him for Maine, he was completely whip- 
ped, and every bit of his military ambition knock- 
ed out of him. We carried him to camp and he 
laid there for the remainder of Huntoon's stay, 
you couldn't get him a rod away, he was so sore 
that he would yell if you even looked at him, and 
he hadn't the courage to snap at a fly. 

Huntoon has been down here several seasons 
since, but he did not bring Buster, nor has he ever 
even mentioned his name, not I either, and we've 
had comfort around the camp fire. I reckon he 
thought it best to leave him up in Massachusetts 
where the woodchucks' fur ain't composed of 
barbed needles, where the Jersey calves ain't exag- 
gerated grasshoppers, and the cats ain't so robust 
and demonstrative. 



274 Maine in Verse and Story 



*HANDS ACROSS THE WALL 

At Gettysburg, in sixty-three, 
The hosts of Meade, and the hosts of Lee. 
Pride of the north, and hope of the south, 
In the blistering sweep of the cannon's mouth. 

Men of a Country, Men of a creed, 
Fighting, that slaves be held, or freed, 
And blood ran free from dead and maimed, 
Heaped where the iron hail was aimed, 
The choke and fume, the blighting pall, 
Their red hands hurled across the wall. 

At Gettysburg, Nineteen-thirteen, 
A century's half now gone between, 
Again the men of sixty-three, 
The hosts of Meade, the hosts of Lee. 

Hosts? Ah, no, just a Corporal's guard, 
White haired, bent and battle scarred, 
But, now met love, in hearts fast bound, 
In blood that drenched that sacred ground, 
And grand old Glory waved for all, 
O'er hands firm clasped, across the wall. 



♦Written on the fiftieth anniversary re-union of the Get- 
tysburg Veterans on the field, in 1913. 



Maine in Verse and Story 275 



*THOU SHALT NOT KILL 

"Thou shalt not kill," 

Hark ye, o'er all the land, 
"Thou shalt not kill," 

Reads God's most stern command, 
"Thou shalt not kill," 

"Vengeance alone is mine," 
So spake the Lord of hosts, 

Let every ear incline. 

God gave, and shall take away, 

So saith his holy creed, 
Man hath not law to slay, 

Let Nations pause, and heed. 

Who boasts of lightened days? 

When such dark things remain, 
Who points at savage ways 

Hath pride that is in vain, 
God save an erring world, 

Shed on it righteous light, 
Hold thy command unfurled, 

Lead us from out the night. 



♦Written against capital punishment. 



